I'd Drive All Night Just to Get Back Home
by roqueclasique
Summary: AU. John's disappeared, Sam's at Stanford, and Dean's struggling to keep it together after a hunting accident leaves him injured in a life-changing way. The story opens when he places a call to Bobby from the hospital... PART ONE OF THE DRIVE 'VERSE
1. Chapter 1

Summary: AU. John has disappeared. Dean, however, can't go find Sam at Stanford, because he's been in the hospital for four months without telling anyone. The story opens the day he is released, a little worse for the wear, when he places a call to Bobby...

A/N: this is my first fic, and feedback is very much appreciated!

Part 1/?

Bobby is in the kitchen fixing a sandwich when the phone in the hallway rings out; a shrill, agitated sound that cuts through the silence of the morning like a scream. He stands still for a moment, disoriented, trying to place the sound – he can't remember the last time someone has called his house phone, not since he'd gotten the cell a year and a half ago. The only people who call the house now are people who want something – salesmen, creditors, wrong numbers, and old friends.

The phone puffs a cloud of dust into the air as he lifts it, and he coughs once before saying, "Hello?"

The voice on the other end is deep, hesitant, and vaguely familiar. "This Bobby Singer?"

"Who's asking?"

"Hey. Bobby. This is Dean Winchester."

"Dean?" He tries to mask the surprise. "Jesus, boy, it's been a while."

"Yeah. Two years?"

"At the very least. How the hell are you? How's that daddy of yours?"

"We – we're doing okay. How've you been?"

"I'm just fine."

Dean clears his throat but says nothing. Bobby lets the silence hang. He knows Dean well enough to know that on the other end of the line, the boy is probably trying to overcome the cat that mysteriously gets his tongue every time he needs help. In the background Bobby hears an official-sounding voice drone for a moment, and then Dean's voice saying something sharply in return, but the phone is muffled so Bobby can't hear the words.

"Spit it out," Bobby says finally, worry getting the better of him. "What's wrong, Dean? Is it John?"

"Well," Dean says, a sigh rattling down the phone line, "not exactly. It's been some time since I've spoken to him, actually. Haven't been able to get a hold of him. Well, not – listen, Bobby, it's complicated."

"So he's –"

"He's not the reason I'm calling."

"Oh?"

"No. Here's the thing. I got a little banged up on a job a couple months ago. Been in the hospital, bout three hours away from you, in East Rapids. And… I'm going crazy. I need to get the fuck out of here. But I can't drive, not at the moment, and dad's not picking up my calls, and I could use a place to… you know, rest up. Just a week and a half or so until I can get back on my feet, sort myself out a little. I wouldn't ask if – and I don't want you to feel any obligation to – "

"You asking if you can stay here?"

He can almost hear Dean's sheepish smile. "Looks like."

"You got your car up there with you?"

"Garage down the block."

"Huh. Well. There's a train that runs straight from town to East Rapids, and if I take the one o'clock I can be there by around four. Then we'll take the Impala back here. Provided you let me get behind the wheel, that is."

"Man, Bobby. I don't know how to thank you."

"Luckily you've got some time to think about it. I won't be there for another few hours."

Dean laughs. "Hey. I'm lettin' you drive my baby. If that ain't thanks, I don't know what is." There is a pause, and then, in a low voice, "I'm, uh, I'm Steve Howe, by the way. Steve. Room 202."

"See you soon, Steve."

"See you. And really. Thanks."

Bobby hangs up slowly. He adjusts his baseball cap and walks into the kitchen, where his half-made sandwich lies abandoned on the counter . He stares at it for a moment, then idly begins stacking lettuce onto the bread.

Shit.

Things have got to be bad if Dean has called him. Where the hell is John? And what exactly has happened? The kid had used the words "a little banged up," which for anyone else probably means "beat to all hell and barely alive to tell the tale."

Shit.

He makes a mental note to stock up on beer.

It's just past four when he steps onto the train platform in East Rapids, and the late summer sun is beginning to sink, shadows beginning to stretch out on the pavement, lengthening by infinitesimal degrees as the sun dips lower.

He examines a tourist map provided by the heavyset woman at the information desk and tries to get his bearings. He's been to East Rapids a couple of times, and thinks he knows how to find the hospital. It is a relatively large town, though it's not quite a city. Has a zoo, and a good sized library, and a museum that's well-known for its extensive beetle collection. The hospital is reputed to be pretty good, and Bobby himself had landed there when a wound turned septic about five years back.

He finds it again without too much trouble, just eight blocks from the station, a sprawling brick building that would look more like a school than a hospital if it weren't for the ambulances wailing in and out of its long drive.

"Lookin' for Steve Howe," he says to the woman at the desk, and she nods absently and sends him up to the third floor.

He finds room 202 easily, and enters, poking his head in first. The hospital bed is rumpled but empty, and for a moment he isn't sure he has the right room. Then someone says, "Hey, Bobby," and he turns to see Dean sitting uncomfortably in a wheelchair by the window. A doctor sits beside him, legs crossed casually as he rifles through a sheaf of papers stacked in a mustard-colored folder.

"You his uncle?" the doctor asks, looking up sternly through a pair of trendy black glasses. He's youngish, maybe forty. Laugh lines around his mouth.

"Yes sir," Bobby says, moving forward, his eyes on Dean. "Hey, Steve." The boy is too pale, with dark circles under his green eyes, and too thin. His hair needs cutting badly, and there is a new scar tracing itself down his cheek and neck before it disappears into the folds of his grey t-shirt.

"I've just been going over this stuff with your nephew," the doctor is saying as he rises to his feet, handing Bobby the yellow folder. "This here is for you. Steve's already got one. In it you'll find instructions for his medication, some basic exercises, some good physical therapists in the area, his prescriptions, a recipe for lasagna…"

Bobby looks up at this last one and raises his eyebrows.

"Good," the doctor says. "you're paying attention. Although, come to think of, after four months here, Steve is probably getting used to being cooked for. Aren't you, Steve?"

Dean snorts. "Yeah, the taste of wet cardboard has really grown on me."

"Oh, come on," the doctor protests.

"Man, don't even try. The food in here is so bad I almost tried to eat my sheets a couple times."

The corner of the doctor's mouth quirks up for a moment before he fixes his expression back into one of seriousness.

"Now," he says, "we've recommended a wheelchair or crutches, at least for the first month or so out, but Steve has adamantly insisted on a cane."

Dean gives Bobby a wide grin, self-deprecating and amused, a "how-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-into-this" and a "now-you're-in-it-too" grin. Bobby tries to smile back, but all he can think is, four months? Wheelchair? Jesus. The boy is obviously a lot worse than he'd let on.

"And if you insist on using a cane, you must wear the leg brace." The doctor is looking at Dean, now. "You have to use that leg brace or you'll end up in a wheelchair, and this time you won't have a choice. You hear me, Steve?"

"Jesus," Dean says. "You'd think we haven't been over this a thousand times before."

"I'll keep saying it until I think it's sunk into that concrete head of yours," the doctor says, making a note on his clipboard. "How about I show your uncle how to work it, in case you need help?"

"I don't think that's necessary," Dean says quickly, as Bobby steps forward.

"Steve," Bobby says. "Maybe the doc's got a point."

"Bobby," Dean says, "we can go over all this stuff later. I just want to get out of here."

"And if you don't want to end up back here, you'll wear the leg brace. And take it easy, Steve. Easy. Use the crutches if you need them. I'm writing you a voucher for a wheelchair, too. Just in case. Show it to the nurse who brings you out. Take it easy. I really don't want to see you back here."

"I'll miss you too, Doc," Dean says, and the two men shake hands. The doctor buzzes for a nurse and leaves the room.

Alone, finally, Bobby turns to Dean and folds his arms.

"So," he says. "This maybe a little worse than you told me on the phone?"

"Hey, I'm fine, Bobby," Dean says, wheeling himself over to the bed to pick up his sweatshirt. "Just a little – "

"—banged up," Bobby finishes. "So you said. Want to tell me what happened?"

Dean shrugs. "I was hunting a nasty spirit up in the woods round here," he says, "in an old cabin. Floor fell through. I happened to be standing on the floor at the time."

"And the leg? Broke?"

Dean nods tersely. "Pretty much shattered, hip to ankle. Had three surgeries. That's why I've been here so damn long. Now I've got more pins in there than a porcupine."

"Is it gonna get better?" Bobby asks. No use beating around the bush, not with Dean.

Dean is silent for a moment, then shrugs again. "Maybe some. They say in a week or two I should be able to drive short distances. At some point I'll be able to get up and down the stairs. But. You know. I'm kind of fucked up."

Bobby nods, keeping his expression neutral even as his heart sinks. "What are you going to do? You can't keep hunting."

"What are you talking about? Of course I can. I just have to get back into shape. Figure some stuff out."

"Dean – "

"Oh, so the car's in a garage a few blocks away, a place called Frank's," Dean says, wheeling himself over to a table in the corner and ripping a strip off a piece of paper. "Ask for Frank. He owed me a favor and he'll give you the keys without charging you anything."

"Dean – "

"I'll be out front when you get back," Dean says, handing him the address of the garage. "I'll be just under the outpatient sign." He looks up, a fierce glint suddenly in his eye. "And Bobby – you better drive her carefully. It's been a while. Clutch might stick a little. But jesus, be gentle."

"I'll handle her as if she were my own," Bobby promises, giving up on the idea of a serious conversation. They'll plenty of time for that on the way back.

"Oh, fuck, man, don't say that. Shit. Half the cars you own are piled in a junk heap in the back of your yard."

Bobby rolls his eyes and started for the door. "Don't go running off on me," he warns. "Be outside when I get back. Don't want to have to run around this whole damn hospital looking for you."

"Run off on you," Dean says. "That's funny."

Dean was right. The clutch does stick. But that doesn't stop the tiny twinge of pleasure Bobby feels as he slides the car backwards down the drive of the garage and into the street. He's always wanted a chance behind the wheel of this thing, though he'd have never wished for that chance to come under these circumstances. But still. Damn. It -- excuse me, SHE -- really is a fine car.

When he pulls up next to the curb of the hospital, Dean's face lights up with a quiet reverence.

"Hey, baby," he says softly, and the nurse looks nervously from Bobby to Dean until she realizes that the endearment is directed at the vehicle.

Bobby opens up the passenger side door, and the nurse hands Dean a geriatric-looking cane, which he takes with a mock-salute of thanks. Bobby goes around to help him out of the chair, putting a shoulder under his and hoisting him up. Dean doesn't protest, lowering himself into the car with a wince and an audible hiss of pain. He uses his hands to pick his bad leg up and maneuver it inside. Bobby folds up the wheelchair, with some help from the nurse – damn thing is confusing – and stuffs it in the back.

"Hey Bobby," Dean calls from the front seat. "Grab that duffle in the trunk for me?"

Bobby tosse the bag at Dean and peels away from the hospital with a squeal of tires that makes Dean cringe.

"Fuck," he says, "are you actively trying to fuck up my tires? Relax. We got time."

Yeah, Bobby thinks, watching Dean wince as he rearranges himself in the seat, trying to get comfortable. Probably a lot more time than either of them has bargained for.

To be continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

They drive in silence for a while, Dean pawing through his duffle bag, smiling as he sees the familiar glint of his weapons. He finds a crumpled pack of Camels and his Zippo in a side pocket, and runs his thumb over the flint wheel a couple times in an almost tender gesture before he lights a cigarette, rolling down the window and taking a long drag.

Bobby opens his mouth to protest but stops, because for one thing, it isn't his car, and for another… well. Let the kid do what he wants, for the time being.

"This tastes like shit," Dean remarks, the first words he's said since they hit the highway. He takes another drag. "Freakin' stale."

"Been sitting in a hot car for four months, what do you expect?"

"Got a point, there."

"Four months is a long time, Dean."

"You're tellin' me. I feel a little stale myself."

"Smell a little stale, too."

Instead of throwing back a retort, Dean just leans his head back on the seat and smiles. "I cannot wait to take a fucking shower without being manhandled by those grab-happy nurses aides."

"Well. There's an image I didn't need."

Dean smirks and smokes in silence for a minute before Bobby ventures, "Wish you'd called me earlier."

"Why?" His tone is genuinely curious.

"Jesus, Dean, four months alone in the hospital? Surgery ain't fun, I've been there. I could have – "

"What? Brought me magazines? Baked me a pie?" Dean shakes his head. "I was fine, man. Pretty out of it for a good amount of the time. Probably wouldn't have even noticed you were there."

"Anyone know where you were? You call your brother?"

Bobby doesn't miss the way Dean's mouth tightens at the mention of Sam.

"My dad knew."

"Thought you said it'd been a while since you'd talked to your daddy."

Dean nods, flicking the cigarette butt out the window. "I think – " he begins hesitantly. "We were together, when I fell. He called the ambulance, that much I remember. Other than that – I don't know. I think he may have been around, at least at first… but I wasn't really in any state to be sure. But yeah. Haven't spoken to him since I took the tumble."

Bobby nods, keeping his eyes on the road. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean's hands fret at the Zippo. The kid is worried.

"You think something happened to him?"

"I don't know," Dean says. He shakes out another stale cigarette and places it in his mouth, chewing on the filter a little but not lighting it. He looks like he's wrestling with himself, trying to make a decision. Then, finally, he says, "He left his journal, Bobby."

"Huh," Bobby makes himself say, like it's no big deal, but the truth is, he's shaken. "He leave it on purpose?"

"Sure looks that way," Dean admits, and raises his lighter, cupping his hand around the flame. Slowly, he blows out a stream of blue smoke, turns his head away from Bobby and towards the window. The sun has just ducked below the treeline, and a few ominous-looking clouds have drifted into the greying sky. Cows lie on the ground in the dry pastures, their legs tucked underneath them, heads alert.

"Gonna rain," Dean remarks.

"Yup," says Bobby.

By the time they pull into the junkyard, it is dark. A roll of pre-storm lightning flickers across the sky as Bobby turns toward the slumped figure in the seat next to him.

"Dean," he says, gently. Then, louder, "Hey, Dean!" He knows better then to reach out and touch him. He's learned from experience how fast the boy can move, and isn't really in the mood to get another black eye.

He needn't have worried, however. Dean comes awake slowly, blinking, as if swimming up through a fog. Probably the medication. Bobby wonders what he's on, if the local pharmacy will carry his prescriptions. Damn. He should have taken a look inside that yellow folder.

"We here?" Dean pushes his head up from where it rests against the windowpane and opens and closes his mouth a couple times, unsticking his tongue. Sits up with a wince.

Bobby climbs out of the car and goes around to the passenger side, where Dean has opened the door and gotten his legs out, sitting dazed, like he isn't sure what's supposed to happen next. He has his duffle around his shoulder, holding onto it like a safety line.

Leaning into the backseat, Bobby tugs out the cane and hands it to Dean, then grips him by the elbow as the younger man hoists himself carefully up from the car. He doesn't let go once Dean is upright, and Dean doesn't brush him off. Together, they move towards the house.

The going is slow across the uneven ground. Bobby is dismayed to see how Dean is handling his body, leaning heavily on the cane and on Bobby's arm, his bad leg dragging behind him like an afterthought. When they get to the steps of the porch, Bobby catches a look of panic chase itself across Dean's face.

Without asking, Bobby takes the cane from Dean's hand and replaces it with his shoulder.

"Come on," he says. "One. Two. Three."

He heaves Dean up the first step and ignores his stifled groan.

"One. Two. Three." Again. And again. And they're up.

"Awesome," Dean mumbles. "Olympics, here I come."

Once inside the house, Bobby leaves him propped blearily against the doorframe as he flicks on the lights.

"I fucking love this kitchen," Dean comments as he watches the dim yellow light seep into the room. "Love the… stuff you've got everywhere."

Bobby looks around, at the stacks of books and piles of plates, the half-cleaned guns lying badly concealed under a piece of cloth, pots and pans and car parts in every corner. Yep. Stuff everywhere, all right.

"Well, excuse me for not tidying up. The maid should be along shortly."

"No," Dean protests, moving awkwardly with the cane as Bobby leads him into the living room, a hand at his back just in case. "I really do like it. Feels lived-in."

Bobby realizes Dean has never been in one place long enough to make it feel lived-in, and his heart squeezes uncomfortably as he helps lower him onto the ratty old couch. The boy's face is very pale, drawn tight.

"I was thinking you'd sleep in the guest room upstairs," Bobby says, "but I guess we're going to have to rethink that plan. This couch do you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, breathing out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thanks Bobby."

"You hungry? You look like you could do with some food."

"Fuck, yes."

Bobby turns to go into the kitchen, then stops and looks back. Dean has both his hands planted on the couch cushions on either side of him, and he's sort of leaning forward, staring off into space.

"You got any meds you need to be taking?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Dean starts to rummage around in his duffle.

"You need a glass of water?"

"That would be great."

Bobby brings him a glass of tepid tap water, feeling obscurely guilty for the rusty pipes that turn the water a clear yellow. Dean has about five pills of assorted shapes and sizes waiting in his hand, and he downs them all in one go, tossing them into his throat like it's nothing.

"I'll fix you a sandwich," Bobby says.

"Thanks," Dean says. Then, again. "Thanks."

"Don't be thankin' me. I'll make you work for your supper yet. Rumor has it you're not a bad cook."

"Not bad? I'm freakin' incredible. Wait till you try my enchiladas."

Bobby goes into the kitchen and stands at the counter, chopping a tomato and listening to the rain begin to fall on his roof, slow at first but then coming down heavy all at once, like someone pulled a plug somewhere.

Dean hollers from the living room, "Hey Bobby! Can I smoke in here?"

What is he supposed to do, say no? No, Dean, go outside in the pouring rain.

He doesn't answer, just arranges the sandwich on a plate and walks it into the living room. Dean has been trying to make himself comfortable; he's gotten his bad leg up on the sofa with a cushion tucked underneath his knee so it's bent slightly.

"Can't straighten it out all the way," Dean explains, following Bobby's gaze. "Yet."

Bobby sits down in his armchair, watches Dean prop himself up against the arm of the couch to take a bite of the sandwich.

"My god, that's good," he says. His eyes close for a moment and he takes another huge bite. "Real food. Fuck." The eyes open again, trained hopefully on Bobby. "You got any beer?"

"I may not know anything about medicine," scoffs Bobby, "but one thing is for damn sure. There is no way you are supposed to be drinking with the shit you're taking."

Dean nods once, doesn't push it for now, focusing on the food. The sandwich is gone in half the time it took to make.

"You want another?"

"No," Dean says. "That was perfect. Fuckin' perfect. Thank you." He takes a sip of the yellow water, makes a face, puts it down. Lets out a belch that has Bobby screwing up his nose in mock disgust. Toys with his pack of cigarettes. Doesn't want to ask again.

"For now," Bobby says finally, unwillingly, "you can smoke in the house. Cause it's raining. But only cause it's raining."

"God bless your heart," Dean sighs, mouthing a cigarette from the pack and lighting it in one smooth motion. He takes a long drag, blows out smoke that seems to go on forever. Bobby resists the urge to cough. No one likes a judgmental asshole, he reminds himself. He watches Dean smoke, ashing onto the empty sandwich plate that he places on his lap.

"So," Dean says, his eyelids half-mast. Bobby can tell by the easy way he shifts his weight that the painkillers have kicked in.

"So."

"Tell me what you've been up to."

"What I've been up to?"

"Yeah. A story. You know. Tell me a story. Like in that show, with the freaky lamb-puppet." His voice goes high, girlish: "Tell me a story, Bobby."

Bobby shakes his head, laughs in disbelief. "I don't know which is worse – you pullin' out a reference to 'Lambchop's Playalong,' or me knowin' what you're talking about."

"Hey, I for one had a wimpy little brother," Dean says. "What's your excuse?"

Bobby can't help but notice the past tense. Had a little brother. True, Sam's not so little anymore – some may even call him gargantuan – but he still wonders at the choice of words.

"What a name for a kid's show," Dean continues, smoke trailing from his nostrils. "Lambchop. No wonder we've got, like, a whole generation of freakin' vegetarians."

Bobby settles back in his chair. "Vegetarians, huh? Funny you should say that. So happens that I've got kind of an interesting story about vegetarians."

"Hunting story?"

"Yeah. Happened about a year ago, down in Oklahoma. I was hunting a poltergeist…"

Bobby talks slow, tells his story. Truth be told, it's a pretty shitty story, long and dull, definitely not anything that he'd pull out with his drinking buddies. Nothing he's proud of. In fact, he pretty much gets his ass handed to him by a sixteen year-old girl in the end. But Bobby knows how to read the signs, and sure enough, the end doesn't matter because Dean's not awake to hear it. He falls asleep about fifteen minutes into the narrative, the pain lines Bobby'd seen etched on his forehead smoothed out, one half-smoked cigarette butt smoldering in the makeshift ashtray next to a few dead friends.

Bobby takes the plate away carefully, stamping out the butt, and covers Dean with a wool blanket that smells like a campfire. Gets him a fresh glass of water, sets it on the table along with a note that says 'If I'm not here when you wake up, call my cell.' He writes down the number, and adds a couple stars and smiley faces, thinking Dean'll get a kick out of that.

Dean stirs a little as he turns off the light, makes a strange noise in the back of his throat, and for a moment Bobby doesn't want to leave him. He remembers when he was just a kid – though he's not sure Dean was ever "just a kid" – and John would drop the boys off for days at a time. Sam was finicky, plagued by nightmares, and refused to sleep unless his big brother was in the room with him. Bobby suddenly wonders how he's sleeping at college, down in – where is he again? California.

He heads up the stairs, feeling a little embarrassed by the emotion he feels creeping over him. He must be going soft in his old age.

And jesus. How the hell DOES he know about Lambchop?

To be continued ...


	3. Chapter 3

Nadie encendía las lámparas

3/?

Dean wakes up the next morning groggy and confused, a headache throbbing behind his eyeballs and no fucking clue where he is. Instead of the familiar white walls of the hospital he sees a cluttered room, with big stuffed armchairs and books stacked everywhere. Dingy wallpaper. A broken television set. He knows this place.

He moves to sit up and look around, but pain shoots through his body and he has to grit his teeth and will himself still.

All right, he tells himself, eyes screwed shut. All right. Breathe through it.

And he does; takes deep, rhythmic breaths till the pain in his leg recedes and his head is clear and he remembers whose couch he's laid out on.

He sees Bobby's note tucked under the water glass, and he reads it with a half smile, rolling his eyes at the doodled decorations.

Bobby with a cellphone, huh? Who'da thunk it. He imagines Bobby sending text messages, and lets out a chuckle that shudders down to his leg and makes him wince.

It's pretty obvious he's not going to be good for anything until he gets some drugs in his system, so he palms his pills and chases them down with the lukewarm water. Leans back, waits for them to kick in.

God.

He'd do anything for a beer. He dreamed about it in the hospital, actual dreams and not just fantasies. He'd drift off to sleep and all of a sudden he'd be popping the top of a cold, sweating bottle, taking a long pull and feeling it slide down his throat.

Didn't really know what that said about him. Probably nothing good.

Damn, but he'd had weird dreams in the hospital. Dreamed a lot about Sam, though that wasn't really anything new, and fuck, he doesn't want to think about Sam right now.

Dreamed about Cassie a couple times, but not the usual dreams, the dreams where he wakes up like a thirteen year-old boy who suddenly tells his mom he'll make his own bed from now on; nothing like that.

In these dreams they didn't touch. They just kind of sat there. Like they were listening to a speech about construction, or something equally mind-numbing. Side-by-side, zoned out. Boring fucking dreams.

What the hell is the point of dreaming about women if all you do is sit next to them?

Dean hears a creak on the floor above him, and for a second of blind panic he's one hundred percent certain that the whole house is going down and he's going to be crushed flat.

Chill the fuck out, he chastises himself. Not every house is made of freakin' dust.

God, what an idiot he'd been, going into that cabin. The place was falling apart – you could see the sky from inside, and that was never a good sign. But no, he'd just charged in like a brainless moron, and now –

"Mornin', sunshine," Bobby says, coming into the living room. Dean starts, so lost in his own thoughts that he hasn't even heard the booted steps thumping down the stairs.

"Hey," he says, rubbing a hand across his face. The meds are taking effect and he sits up slowly, carefully moving his legs off the couch and onto the ground.

"How you feelin'?"

"Like a freakin' rose, Bobby."

"I always said you were a delicate flower."

Dean wags a finger at him. "You're funny." He eases himself to the edge of the couch, bad leg stretched out in front of him. Under his jeans a metal edge of the brace on his leg is cutting into tender flesh. Shouldn't have slept with it on. Stupid.

He casts his eyes around for his cane, muttering, "Where the hell's that fucking…"

Bobby leans over and plucks it up from where he'd dropped it on the ground the night before.

"Thanks," Dean says, and takes a sip of water, stalling for time. How's he going to do this? Not like he hasn't had some practice in the hospital, but there were always metal bars and shit, or some big brawny dude in scrubs ready to catch him if he fell.

He puts one hand on the edge of the coffee table and with the other grips his cane tightly. One, he thinks. Two. Three. Pushes off with his good leg, leans just right on the cane, and he's up.

He looks at Bobby, trying not to grin like a six-year old who just learned how to ride a bike. It hurts, but he did it. He can do this.

He takes a step forward, and everything is still all right. Bobby's doing a pretty good impression of Sam, though, tense and worried as hell but trying to conceal it with casually folded arms and a bored expression.

"Hungry?" Bobby asks, and Dean nods, following him slowly into the kitchen.

There's a tiny step up from the living room to the kitchen and Dean navigates it without too much trouble, his free hand on the doorframe for a little extra support. He feels Bobby's eyes on him and he resists the urge to snap out something nasty.

In the hospital, EVERYONE was all fucked up; hell, he was downright lucky compared to the some of the people in there – but out here, in the real world, it's just him that's screwed to hell.

He guesses he's got to get used to people staring, get used to that look he's getting from Bobby right now, half-pity half-concern and one-hundred percent not fucking welcome.

Bobby kicks out a chair for him, and Dean lowers himself down into it. The smell of woodsmoke catches his nose, somebody burning something somewhere, and he suddenly wants a cigarette so bad his palms start itching.

He knows he left his pack in the living room, and the thought of making his way back in there is exhausting, but if he's going to get himself back up to speed he's got to start now.

Before the accident, no way would he have thought twice about going twenty steps from one room to another. Now shouldn't be any different.

Except, it is. Pulling himself into a stand takes almost a full minute of careful rearranging of body parts and kitchen chairs and his stupid fucking cane which is so ugly he would snap it in two if he didn't need it to take even one damn shuffling step.

He accidentally lets a low growl escape his lips and Bobby looks up from where he's cracking eggs into a pan.

"Sit down, Dean," he says. "Don't be an idiot. If you need something, just tell me."

Dean goes for a grin, and shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine. Feeling a lot better than yesterday, actually."

"Uh huh," says Bobby. His eyes under the brim of his cap are skeptical. "I'm just sayin'. You need something – you let me know. Within reason."

Dean huffs a laugh and continues into the living room, concentrating on getting his leg to respond to his brain's commands. He has to admit, the brace does help. He isn't sure he'd be able to do this without the ankle-to-hip contraption of plastic and metal and leather.

Lifestyle changes, the doctors had said. Readjustments.

He snorts as he leans down to get his cigarettes, a steadying hand on the arm of the couch.

Lifestyle changes, my ass.

He'd heard a woman in physical therapy earnestly asking a doctor if he thought there was a chance she'd ever play tennis the same now that she'd busted her shoulder, and he'd had a good chuckle, imagining himself asking the doctor similar questions.

"What, doc, no more getting thrown against walls? No more midnight romps through the graveyards? Well, I can still beat the shit out of a demon, right? No? What the hell! You trying to suck all the fun out of life?"

He shakes his head. For four months he did it their way – slow walks down a padded floor, clutching parallel bars, swinging his foot on cue and pushing his leg against some enthusiastic nurse's hand… well, fuck that shit. Now he was going to do it his way. The same way he'd always gotten everything done – he was just going to fucking DO it.

That's right, he thought to himself, starting the long haul back to the kitchen, I'm a walking Nike ad. Well. Not really walking too well at the moment. But hey. Nike. Good slogan.

"Eggs're done," Bobby says, glancing up from the stove as Dean comes into the kitchen.

"Coffee?" he asks, his mouth watering at the thought.

"Be another few minutes."

Dean nods, leans against the kitchen counter, gets the weight off his leg. "I think I'm just going to go outside for a second, have a smoke. I'll be right back in."

Bobby looks at him for a moment, exasperation and capitulation clear on his face. Bobby always sucked at poker. "Listen," he says. "You can smoke inside if you want."

"But it's not raining anymore."

"Yeah, well. Rules change."

Dean wants to wave it off, wants to go outside and let Bobby have his smoke-free kitchen, but honestly? Nike ad be damned. He needs to sit down. Like, NOW.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, but not so Bobby can really hear, and sinks into the kitchen chair. He tugs a dirty mug in front of him and one-hands a light, trying to let the cigarette calm him down a little. He can feel himself getting agitated and he wants to nip that shit in the bud.

He gets angry so quickly lately – he's gotta watch out for that. Doesn't want to be a powder keg, doesn't want to go crazy.

Bobby sets a plate of eggs in front of him, along with a couple thick slices of brown bread slathered in butter, and sits across the table, starting in on his own breakfast.

Dean takes a bite of toast and a flurry of ash from his cigarette falls into his eggs. Shit. He looks up guiltily, hoping Bobby didn't notice.

"So," he says, scooping up the ashy mouthful and swallowing it quickly. Ugh. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Bobby shovels a heaping forkful of egg into his mouth and says thickly, "Gotta get into town to grab some supplies. Some parts I need for this engine, some groceries. Then I figured I'd do a little work on the Camry you might've seen out back. Owner's supposed to come by tomorrow. Easy job; shouldn't take more than an hour or two."

Dean nods. Chews, smokes. Kind of a gross combination, actually.

"You need anything from town? I thought I'd call in your prescriptions, but besides that?"

Dean thinks for a minute. "Coupla packs of cigarettes, maybe? Camels?"

Bobby purses his lips. "Your daddy know you smoke those things?"

Dean tries to quell the beat of panic he feels at the mention of his missing father. Takes a drag. "Yup."

"Bet he has a thing or two to say about it."

"Sure does."

"Then I guess I won't go repeatin' something you've probably heard a million times."

"I appreciate that." Dean grins. "You'd be surprised, actually. It's not him I'm scared of. My dad, hell, we both know he's a lecturer, but Sammy, shit. You'd think I was burning holes in his eyeballs the way he carries on. Makes that famous bitchface."

Bobby looks up and Dean takes a hasty bite of toast to stop himself from speaking another word.

It felt good, saying his brother's name out loud, too fucking good. He doesn't want good. He wants to be as angry at Sam as Sam seems to be at him.

As if in retaliation for his wayward mouth, his leg pulses a white-hot bolt of pain as he tries to change position on the hard kitchen chair. He almost drops his fork. He's still figuring out this new body, what's going to hurt it and what'll feel okay.

He's been in pain before, shit yes, but not like this, not this steady ache that makes it seem almost as if the leg weren't a real part of his body, almost as if it's an enemy soldier in disguise, an infiltrator, a traitor.

Fuck you, he thinks at it savagely, and for one confused moment he's not sure if he's swearing at his throbbing limb or at some other traitor; one that's six-foot-five with shaggy brown hair and slanted hazel eyes.

to be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

The first week and a half at Bobby's passes quickly, both men slipping easily into something like a routine

The first week and a half at Bobby's passes quickly, both men slipping easily into something like a routine. For the first couple of days Bobby seems nervous about leaving Dean alone in the house to fend for himself, but eventually he relaxes and begins to leave early in the morning, coming home only when it begins to grow dark.

Usually he returns with an armful of rusty car parts or some jalopy towed haphazardly behind his old pickup, but sometimes he's got a list of names and dates or a three year-old newspaper obit section that he'll plop in front of Dean saying, "Get to work."

Every morning Dean waits till he's gone before starting his daily exercises, sitting on the kitchen floor peering confusedly at the diagrams on the pamphlet the doctors have given him: A lot of strange, painful stretches, things called "knee lifts" and "heel slides," instructions that mention the "buttocks" a little too often for Dean's comfort.

Usually, he can do them. He tries not to worry on the days he can't.

He does his best to keep moving; at first around the house, dragging himself from one room to another, and then, when he feels a little steadier, he takes himself outside and practices walking on the uneven ground of the junkyard.

He notices definite improvement on the stairs, though going down is still a lot harder than going up. He finds that what he can't do because of his leg he can make up for in technique. It's all about knowing when to step, and where, and how to grip the railing and when to use the cane.

He takes the Impala up and down Bobby's long gravel drive, and once he goes into town to get groceries. True, it hurts like a bitch, especially shifting gears — but it feels like the first taste of honest-to-god mobility that he's had in four months, and the pain is more than worth it.

He spends hours leafing through his father's journal looking for any clue that might tell him where John's gone. Takes pages of notes in a stained spiral-bound and reads them over before he goes to sleep at night, crossing out every other sentence with a violence that has his pencil ripping through the pages.

He holds onto his temper for the most part and doesn't snap at Bobby's good-natured attempts at help.

He oils his guns;

he sets up a bulls-eye and throws knives;

he learns to twirl his cane;

he smokes too much;

he does push-ups and sit-ups and pull-ups and practices standing up;

he jerks off;

he goes up and down the stairs till his vision blurs;

he takes his meds;

he cooks something different every night;

he brushes up on his Latin …

and most importantly, he pretty much holds it together.

So long story short, he's doing okay.

The question that plagues him, however, is:

WHAT is he doing, exactly?

He knows Bobby's wondering the same thing, and one night over dinner, the older man leans back in his chair and gives Dean a serious look.

Fuck.

"You know, you can stay here as long as you like," Bobby says as an opener.

Dean doesn't look at him, just scrapes his fork around his plate and pretends to squash a pea.

He knows what's coming.

He's getting kicked out.

To be honest, he's almost glad. It's time for him to start his life again.

But the silence drags on, and finally Dean raises his head, confused. Bobby's still looking at him.

"Seriously, Dean. I kind of like bein' cooked for, and I was thinking, if you're going to stick around, maybe I'd put you to work on a couple of cars. Could use a hand."

Dean tries to keep his mouth shut, but it keeps attempting to drop open.

"Bobby," he says, then clears his throat. "Bobby, I can't – I've got to – "

"What?" Bobby leans forward, almost knocks over his bottle of beer. "Hunt?"

Dean raises his chin a little. "Yeah. Find my dad."

Bobby shakes his head, breath already coming fast. "Boy, how the hell do you intend to hunt? Huh? What are you going to do when you've got some hell-creature on your ass and you can't run away from it?"

"Kill it?" Dean suggests.

"What if something knocks you down? It ain't gonna just wait around for you to haul yourself up inch by inch. What the hell are you going to do then?"

"Kill it," Dean repeats, a hard edge creeping into his voice.

"Dean – "

"Bobby," Dean says, trying to keep his voice level. "Listen. I can't just sit around here working on your cars for the rest of my goddamn life."

"You can help me hunt, do some research on your daddy, you can – "

"No," Dean says, too loud, then quieter, "No. I appreciate the offer. God, I do. You've been so – lettin' me stay here – I owe you already, man. Big time. But. I can't."

Bobby nods, shakes his head, frowns. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

Dean leans back in his chair. "Dude," he says. "Shitty argument. And so overdone. 'S exactly what my dad told Sammy when the kid wanted to wear a Little Mermaid t-shirt to a seventh grade dance, and I'm relatively sure Sam's still alive."

Bobby laughs a little, in spite of himself. Picks up his spoon. Takes a bite. "So. You're leaving tomorrow, is that it? You're good to go? Sayonara?"

"Nah," Dean says, lighting a cigarette, trying to ignore the way his hands shake a little from the confrontation. "I still need a couple days beauty rest, you know?"

Bobby gives him the once over, makes a face. "I'll say."

The next morning, Dean's stretched out on the kitchen floor doing his best to get his bad leg up and off the ground, tightening his thigh muscles like the instructions say. He manages it for about a second, his foot hovering a couple centimeters off the floor and his body quivering with the effort, before his muscles give out and his heel slams back to the linoleum.

He shouts "FUCK" and almost doesn't hear the tinny ring of the phone.

Shit. Bobby had warned him that morning that he was going to call about this time and have Dean read him a list of names off the computer.

He scoots on his ass across the floor to the kitchen table and then hauls himself upright, grappling with his cane for a minute before pushing himself off the edge of the table and limping his way into the hall.

The phone has rung four times before he finally snatches it off the hall table and up to his ear.

"Hello," he says, a little out of breath.

Silence on the other end.

"Hello?" he tries again. Nothing. Fuckin' Bobby and his technological illiteracy.

"It's the green button, man," he says, exasperated, "that little one on the side. Come on, how many times have we been over this?"

"Dean?"

He freezes. This is not Bobby. His stomach does a strange flip and his bad leg threatens to buckle. This is—

"Sam?"

His little brother is breathing hard, and Dean can tell just from the harsh, familiar sound that Sam's nostrils are pinched tight, his mouth squinched into that little line that means uh-oh. He's angry.

"Dean, jesus christ, where the hell have you been?"

"What?" Have they entered some sort of parallel universe here?

"Dean, I've been calling you non-fucking-stop for the past three months."

"Woah, woah." He puts a hand to the wall, tries to keep himself upright. "You. Have been calling me? I don't think that's quite the game we've been playing, little brother."

"Where the hell have you been? Are you all right?"

"Sam, calm down, man. I'm fine. My phone got busted, that's all. Why the hell were you calling me in the first place?" Something constricts around his heart and his voice grows sharp. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm fine."

"Then what were you calling for?"

Sam pauses. "Say hi?"

Dean grins a little. "Bullshit."

Sam sighs and Dean can almost see him, bangs in his face, eyes rolling. "Well, the first time I called I was, I don't know, I was at a party, I'd had a few, I –"

"Hang on. Were you drunk-dialing me?"

"Dean—"

"You did. You drunk-dialed me. Ha! Never would have pegged you for the type, Sammy, but—"

"And then," Sam continues resolutely, "when you didn't pick up your phone, I got worried. Called again. You didn't pick up. Called again. Nothin'. Called dad. He didn't pick up." His voice takes a plunge towards hysteria. "So I called again. And again and a-fucking-gain and neither of you answered and I tried not to worry, but goddammit, I've been trying for three months! So I called Bobby. And would you look at that. Here you are. You fucking asshole."

"Hey," Dean says, "hey. Calm down. I'm all right."

"Yeah, I got that." Despite the sarcasm in his words, Sam's tone softens.

Neither of them says anything for a few beats, but the silence is louder than any words could be. It's the roaring sound of two fucking years. That's twenty-four months; seven hundred and thirty days; one million fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes.

Go figure the first thing Sammy does is bitch at him.

"How's dad," Sam asks finally, monotone, like he doesn't care one way or another.

Oh, damn. What the hell is Dean supposed to say?

Truth is, while he was in the hospital he'd had some vague, no-doubt painkiller-induced, notion of going to California to get Sam, track down their dad together, be a family again… or something.

But now, confronted with his brother's voice for the first time in two years, he doesn't know what he was thinking.

This would be so much easier in person.

"He's probably fine."

"Probably? What, he's not with you?"

"I got tossed around a little, so I'm here at Bobby's for a while to… recuperate."

"What? You okay?" The concern in Sam's voice makes Dean smile despite himself.

"Yeah, I'm all right, more or less."

"More or less?"

"I'm having a little trouble getting around, but –" Why is he telling Sam this, again? Fuckin' meds. Make him all loopy. "I'm fine."

"Dean, are you –"

"I'm glad you called," Dean says. It just slips out as he's trying to change the subject. "Been a while."

"Yeah." Sam's voice goes strangely quiet and he suddenly sounds about five years old again.

Dean clears his throat, his hands suddenly sweating. "Well," he says. "Take care of yourself."

"Wait, Dean –"

Dean gently replaces the phone in the cradle. Leans against the wall. Wishes for a chair. Wishes for a cigarette. Glances hopefully down the dark, dusty hallway as if either of those two things may come prancing towards him at any minute. They don't.

Goddammit. GODDAMMIT.

What the fuck was he thinking, just hanging up like that? He didn't even ask about, shit, about Sammy's classes, or his friends, or girls, or whether or not he was eating okay or if he had enough money or if he still put down salt lines every night or if …

Dean shakes his head, readjusts his grip on his cane. What good would it do, asking that stuff? He doesn't give a shit, doesn't want to know about Sam's strange, unfathomable college life. Just wants to know he's safe. And he sounds safe. Sounds healthy. That's all that matters.

He somehow makes his way back into the kitchen, where he smokes a cigarette so quickly that he gets a little light-headed. Smokes a second one slower, ashing into his cupped palm because he can't force himself up to get a plate.

It's strange, knowing how easily he lied to Sam, told him he was all right. It's a lie based on distance, based on the fact that he has no fucking clue when he'll see his brother again.

All Sam would have to do is take one look at him, at his cane and his scars and the way he moves, to know that he's not one hundred percent fine. But Sam's too far away to see him. So the lying is easy.

For one brief, confusing moment, he wishes it weren't.

When Bobby gets home that night, earlier than normal, Dean is drunk. Really and truly drunk for the first time since getting out of the hospital.

After Sam called that afternoon he'd sat down at the kitchen table, methodically working his way through a pack of cigarettes and ignoring the phone when it rang, even though he knew it was probably Bobby.

He'd looked down at one point and was honestly surprised to find that he'd finished a six-pack of Heineken. At which point he switched to a bottle of Jim Beam he found in the cupboard.

My god, but his tolerance is shit. The painkillers probably aren't helping any.

It would be embarrassing if he weren't so freakin' wasted.

He hears the front door creak open and he swings his head around to survey the table in front of him, which is a lot blurrier than normal.

He thinks he'd like to tidy up a little, maybe put the bottles by the sink, wipe up that spill by his elbow, empty the overflowing saucer he's been using as an ashtray – and shit, he forgot to cook dinner, he could put on some water to boil for pasta, sauté a whaddayoucallit, an onion, and …

He gives up on all that once he realizes he can't get up.

Bobby stands in the doorway and adjusts his hat, coughs.

Dean opens his mouth to say something but realizes too late that there's a cigarette in it, and has to spend a long fumbling moment trying not to burn a hole in his lap with the fallen butt.

When he looks up, cigarette retrieved and clamped triumphantly between his lips, Bobby has poured himself a glass of Beam and taken a good swig.

"I called," Bobby says.

"I hate the fuckin' phone," Dean slurs, which isn't what he meant to say. He's pretty sure he meant to apologize.

"Got a little worried."

"Dumbass." Oops. Also not what he meant.

Bobby looks him up and down, grins a little. "Don't think I've ever seen you so messed up, Winchester."

Dean tries to blow a smoke ring but his cigarette is out. "'M totally fucked," he admits. "'S'an accident."

"You didn't even make dinner."

"I know," Dean groans, putting his forehead on the table. "I suck."

"Any reason you decided to throw yourself this little party?"

Dean lifts his head up and fixes Bobby with a glare. "Yeah," he says. " 'Cause m' life is f'ckin' hard."

Bobby's expression softens and his eyes go sad and FUCK that is not SO what Dean intended to happen.

He squints one eye shut so he can aim better, and points across the table menacingly.

"Hey," he says. "You pissed at me? You sh'd be pissed, dude. F'rgot to do the thing. The phone. The c'mputer."

"It's okay," Bobby says, moving to get some of the bottles off the table. "Nothin' serious. Just fucked up my whole damn day, that's all." He says it with a grin.

"Yeah," Dean agrees morosely, then notices what Bobby is doing. "Hey!" he barks. "Lemme."

He puts both hands flat on the table and attempts to leverage himself up, but he can tell about an inch off his chair that it's not going to end well, and he pauses, confused.

"Woah," Bobby says, coming quickly around to grasp him by the elbow. He grabs Dean's cane from where it's propped up on the table and shoves it into his hand. "Think you might be ready for bed, son?"

"'S like eight o'clock," Dean protests, but lets Bobby lead him into the living room.

Lead might be too mild of a word, actually; he's kind of forgotten how to use his cane and his bad leg doesn't listen to the muttered curses he throws at it, so Bobby ends up half-dragging half-carrying him to the couch before dropping him unceremoniously onto the cushions.

"Fuck," Dean gasps as he lands on his bad hip. "F'ckin hurts."

"Yup," Bobby says, but he's gentle as he helps Dean get a pillow under his knee. "Gonna hurt even more tomorrow."

Dean might be hammered but he recognizes that to be the truth. He groans a little and leans back, closing his eyes.

"Don't you do anything stupid," Bobby warns him, his voice already fading.

"'M lying on a couch," Dean mumbles. "The fuck'd I do?"

"I don't want to find out, boy. Just don't – choke on your own vomit, or something. Jimi Hendrix, you ain't."

"'S a dirty lie." He throws an arm over his eyes and almost immediately can feel himself drifting into unconsciousness.

From far, far away, he thinks he hears a phone ringing, a sharp, angry sound that makes him want to scream, but it stops before he can open his mouth.

And then he's out.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

Nadie encendía las lámparas

Oh god, godDAMN, it feels like a thousand poltergeists are playing monkey-in-the-middle with Dean's stomach; feels like his head has become the field for a football team of elephants and they're going for the touchdown.

He cracks open his eyes, but the shaft of light falling from the window hurts too much and he squeezes them back shut again.

He swallows, trying to get some moisture to his dry throat. His mouth feels like someone's sandpapered the Sahara.

Fuck, he doesn't even remember going to sleep last night. Last thing he remembers he was sitting at the kitchen table trying to play tic-tac-toe with himself, which, god, is bad enough that he doesn't even want to begin to think what came after that.

He lies there for a good fifteen minutes, until the pressure on his bladder becomes too intense to ignore.

He sits up with a groan, eyes slitted against the light, and fumbles half-blind for his painkillers. He can't work up enough saliva to swallow them, so he grits his teeth, gropes for his cane, and manages to get himself to the bathroom.

He's torn for a minute – piss or pills? – but the choice is about to be made for him, so he drops trou and props himself up against the blue tiled wall with one hand, praying not to fall in.

When he's done (success!) he pops the pills in his mouth and drinks straight from the faucet, chugging the water even though it tastes like ass – or maybe that's just the inside of his mouth.

Stumbles back to the couch, where he finds a note from Bobby.

"Sucks to be you."

Dean crumples the paper up into a little ball and chucks it across the room with a weak curse. He checks the time on the clock above the busted t.v. and is astounded to see that it's already twelve. He hasn't slept till noon since he was seventeen.

He props his leg up on the couch and wrestles the bulky brace off of it. He's really got to stop sleeping in the thing or he'll have permanent dents in his leg.

He leans back and stares at the ceiling, tries not to think about Sam, examines a brown water stain shaped like Alaska, a smaller one that could be a bird.

Sits up, counts his cigarettes twice, comes out with four both times and counts again just to be sure.

He promises himself he'll conserve, space them out, make them last, but then he smokes two in rapid succession, lighting the second off the butt of the first, pissed at himself.

The phone rings at one o'clock and his heart leaps into his mouth. He moves fast, considering he's not even wearing the brace, and he answers the phone right after the third ring.

It's Bobby, asking for the names he was supposed to have read him yesterday. Tells Dean he's got some research for him to do when he gets home that evening, something about possible multiple possessions down in Oklahoma. Promises to pick up cigarettes and milk on the way home, laughs at Dean's hangover. Says he'll be home early.

After he hangs up the phone Dean half-asses his exercises on the kitchen floor for about fifteen minutes before giving up and heading back to the couch, where he flicks his Zippo on and off and eyes his two remaining cigarettes and tries not to smoke.

He picks up his father's journal to do some work, but his conversation with Sam is too fresh in his mind and the sight of his father's handwriting makes something in his stomach plummet and seize up, so he puts the journal down and goes back to flicking his lighter.

Takes another Vicodin but it doesn't really do shit besides make him drowsy.

Gives in, smokes a cigarette, then holds the very last one up to his face and pretends he's just looking at it when really he's about three seconds away from jamming it into his mouth and swallowing it whole.

He puts it down on the far end of the table and resolutely tries to nap.

He's drifting off, headache finally receding behind a tide of sleep, when he hears a knock on the door, quiet but firm. He waits, not sure he's heard right, and the knocking comes again, faster this time and louder.

"Be right there," he shouts, one hand going for his cane and the other for his gun.

The knocking starts up again, hard, and there's something strange about it, a hint of menace. Not a friendly knock. Threatening.

Dean's blood runs suddenly cold.

He gets himself up off the couch, gun clutched in a sweaty palm.

He told Bobby he's ready to hunt again, and fuck, he IS – but he hasn't had to defend himself in over four months, and he's NEVER had to defend himself with a bad leg. Not like this, anyway.

He limps down the hallway, trying to keep his cool, hangover forgotten.

From the window he sees a taxi pulling out of Bobby's driveway, bright yellow against the grey sky, and he thinks, What the hell?

Then, about twenty steps from the door, he hears the scritch-scratch of metal on metal, a sound he's heard a million times – someone's picking the fucking lock.

Breath coming fast now, he stops in the middle of the kitchen and leans against the counter, letting his cane drop so both his hands are free. He leverages the gun up and points it at the door just as the lock gives way with a heavy _click._

The door slams open and Dean squeezes the trigger with a deafening BANG.

"Fuck!" the intruder screams, hitting the floor as the bullet buries itself in the wall above the doorjamb, and thank god, thank god Dean was aiming to scare and not to kill, because—

"Sammy?"

For a long moment neither one of them says a word, Dean gripping the edge of the kitchen counter and Sam climbing slowly to his feet, shaking long hair out of his eyes and blinking too fast.

Then he says, shakily, trying to laugh, "Thought you were gonna kill me."

"I still might," Dean says, and he means it. He opens his mouth to say something else but is still so stunned that all he can do is gape like a guppy, drinking in the sight of his little brother standing there.

Sam. Right there.

"Christo," Dean blurts out, and Sam laughs, a real, good laugh that makes Dean's breath catch just a little.

If his cane weren't on the ground four feet away from him, if his legs weren't doing their best impression of overcooked noodles, he'd walk forward and grab onto his brother's green sweater, put his hand in that ridiculous hair, touch his shoulder. Shove him, hit him, make sure he was real, make sure he was all right.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, voice gruff.

"I talked to Bobby last night," Sam says, coming forward, a familiar-looking duffle slung over one shoulder.

"You what?" Dean feels like his brain is made of cotton-wool.

Sam reaches out like he's going to hug Dean, then stops, grips his shoulder awkwardly instead. Squeezes too hard. Grabs the sleeve of his worn-out grey t-shirt and tugs once before letting go, like he doesn't know what else to do.

Dean lets him do it, still pressed up against the counter, trying to keep himself from falling over. He's afraid to let go.

God, he forgot how tall Sam had gotten. All this time, he'd been picturing his little brother as he was before his growth spurt, a gangly sixteen year-old about an inch shorter than Dean. But now he's got to look up just to be eye-to-eye.

"I talked to Bobby," Sam repeats. His eyes stray up and down his brother's body and flick to the cane on the ground, and suddenly Dean understands.

A wave of rage washes over him, so intense it almost doubles him over. "Bobby. Bobby told you to come?"

"No, not exactly, he just told me –"

"What? Told you I'd been hurt?"

"Yeah —"

"What'd he say? He tell you I can't walk? That I can't hunt?"

"Well—yeah."

"Jesus fucking christ." Dean feels like Bobby's stabbed him in the back, stabbed him right through the goddamn heart. He turns his head away for a second, suddenly can't breathe.

Sam takes a step forward, hands out, tone beseeching. "He was worried, Dean, said he thought you—"

"Just stop, Sam," Dean says. He can't listen to any more just now.

The real bitch of it is, he can't get away without proving Bobby right; he can't just push himself off the edge of the counter and walk away from this, because it's true, more or less. He CAN'T walk.

"What'd you do," Dean asks when he's got his lungs working again, "fly here?"

Sam looks sheepish and defiant at the same time. "Yeah."

"Holy shit." He shakes his head in anger and disbelief. Swallows his pride and demands, "Give me that," pointing to his cane.

Sam hands it to him and watches as he moves away from the counter, wincing a little.

"Let me—"

"Get OFF, Sam, I got it," Dean barks, and nearly knocks himself over trying to jerk his arm out from under his brother's anxious hands.

So many times in the past two years he thought he'd have done anything to see his brother, grab onto him, just for a second.

But not like this.

Dean makes it to the couch and sinks down into it, trying to process what's happening. Sam — jesus, SAM — sits on the armchair across from him, watching fretfully, big hands bouncing on his knees like he's playing the piano.

"Dean," he says, "why didn't you tell me? When we talked?"

Dean just looks at him.

"Listen," Sam starts. Then, all in a rush, like he's worried he won't get the words out in time, "I want you to come back to Stanford with me. You can move into our apartment, get a job or something, we can—"

"_Our_ apartment?" Dean interrupts, raising his eyebrows.

Sam shows his dimples for the first time, suddenly looking almost happy. "Me and my girlfriend. Jess. You'll love her, Dean, god, she's amazing, and we –"

"Sammy," Dean interrupts, "I'm glad to see you. I really am. But if you think for one millisecond that I'm going to come with you – then you're even more of a hopelessly delayed shit-for-brains than I thought."

"But—"

"So the gossip queen told you I'm all fucked-up; okay. All right. What else he tell you? He say anything about Dad?"

"Dad? No – why would he…?"

"Cause Dad's missing, Sam," Dean says. "Haven't heard one goddamn word from him in four months." He holds up four fingers just in case Sam's gone deaf as well as stupid.

"What? He's probably just—"

"Just what? He left his journal, man." Thinks; he left ME. "You know that ain't good."

Sam swallows, face suddenly pale.

"So, excuse me if I can't just sit around like a good little invalid. I was planning on gettin' out of here within the next few days. Start looking."

Sam's got his thinking face on, eyebrows scrunched together, lower lip jutted out just a little. Same face he's had since he was three, every time he's trying to get through something that just doesn't make sense to him.

Dean goes for his one remaining cigarette and fumbles with the lighter, wondering when the hell his fingers had started trembling like that.

"You still smoking?" Sam asks, his voice gone miraculously from scared and worried to prim and nagging.

"You still a whiny little bitch?"

"You still a ginormous jerk?"

Dean exhales a plume of grey and looks up. Sam's lips are half-quirked, trying not to laugh, and for just a minute everything's almost okay.

Then Sam says, "Dean," and his voice is back to that solemn, freaked-out, not-quite-quaver. "Even if Dad is – missing, or whatever – you can't seriously – you aren't going to go look for him alone. You can't."

Dean wills himself to stay calm. "I CAN, Sam. This," he waves his hand at his bad leg, stuck out in front of him like an unwanted piece of furniture, "is a minor setback. Hell, you've seen me hunt with worse. I've seen YOU take down a poltergeist with half your insides hanging out your outsides."

"That is both totally revolting and a completely different story. From what Bobby told me, this is – Dean, this is permanent."

"Bobby had no fucking right to—"

"Then YOU tell me," Sam says, leaning forward earnestly, eyes trained on his brother. "Tell me what's goin' on, man. Where you're at. Is this gonna get better?"

Dean considers the question, teases out one last drag from his cigarette and slams the butt violently into his empty water glass. "A little."

"A little?" Sam says. "Not good enough, Dean. You're coming with me."

"I told you, NO. What aren't you getting? Dad has been gone for four months, gone without one fucking trace, disappeared the day I went into the hospital and—"

"Woah, woah." Sam holds up his hands, furrows his brows. "But you said—Dean—you were in the hospital for four months?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Not really the point here, Sammy."

"Jesus." Sam runs his hands through his hair, shakes his head, hugs himself a little. "Why didn't you call me?"

"If I'd have called, would you have picked up?"

Sam's face crumples and he shuts his eyes. "Dean—"

"You really think you can just disappear for two years then show up like this, expecting to rescue me or some shit like that? You want me to be grateful? Want me to say, Gee, thanks Sammy, couldn't do it without you?"

"Dean, please—"

"I got news for you. I've BEEN doing it without you and I'm gonna KEEP doing it without you."

Sam looks like he's on the verge of tears, but Dean doesn't stop.

"You don't fuckin' owe me anything Sam. And I sure as hell don't owe SHIT to you. Do you hear me? So, thanks for coming, but you can just turn your ass right back around and—"

"SHUT UP!" Sam shoots to his feet, paces over to the window, comes back, looms right in front of the overhead light so Dean has trouble seeing his face. "I went to COLLEGE, Dean. Not MARS. I didn't kill anyone, didn't deliberately try to hurt you — I made a choice. And yeah, maybe it didn't go like I might have wanted it to, not with dad, and especially not with you. But I made my fucking choice and I'm not sorry."

Dean looks down, rubs his aching leg, tries to come up with a response to that. He feels rather than sees Sam kneel down on the floor in front of him.

"But I AM sorry that I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry that you thought you had to call Bobby instead of me. Jesus, Dean. You're still my brother."

"Yeah." Dean is suddenly exhausted. His leg is throbbing and his headache is back with a vengeance and goddamn, he needs another cigarette. He can't do this anymore, not at the moment. He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. "Well. I guess you're here now, huh?"

Sam looks hopeful, then suspicious. "Yeah. Guess so."

"You want a beer or somethin'?"

Sam doesn't know what he expected to happen, now that he thinks about it. He kind of just figured he'd, you know, get on a plane, grab his brother, go home, and everyone would be happy. Except maybe Jess, at first, but she'd get used to it.

"Wait, wait," she'd said when he got off the phone with Bobby, wild-eyed but calm, strangely calm. "Your brother, the brother you mention maybe once every six months, has had some sort of – accident? And now you want him to come live with us."

"Yeah," Sam had said, shaking out a green t-shirt, sniffing it. "Is this clean?"

"No, you wore it yesterday. Sam, this is – I mean, of course he can stay with us while he recovers, or whatever, but – I'm just not clear on the details, I guess. What happened, again?"

"I told you, he fell off a building on a construction site and messed up his leg. Now he's having trouble walking, is in a lot of pain, apparently. I figure he can sleep on the couch until we can clear out that back room. I'm not sure how he's getting around, I don't think he's in a wheelchair or anything, but we've got all those concrete steps out front, I was thinking maybe I should at least put in a railing or something, maybe a ramp—"

Jess had grabbed his shoulders, spun him towards her. Had taken his face between her hands, forced him to look at her. "Sam, baby. Deep breath, now. You're talking like you're possessed."

And what would you know about that, thought Sam.

"I get that you want to help your brother, I really do. I just don't think it's necessary to go flying out there first thing tomorrow morning. And why can't he just fly here alone? He's twenty-six, isn't he? You really don't need to go fetch him."

Sam had shaken his head. An honest explanation of why he had to go in person would necessitate an equally honest explanation of Dean himself – and that could take years.

Jess sighed, twisted her hair into a ponytail, let it fall back down. "This is weird, Sam. I'm not going to lie. You're being WEIRD."

And Sam had laughed, because he WAS being weird, and because she had absolutely no fucking idea how weird he could be.

And he honestly couldn't explain why he was so keyed up like this, so focused; couldn't put a name to the emotion thrumming through him.

Yeah, there was worry there — but — there was a weird thrill present, too, if he was being honest with himself.

Almost as if he were — excited. Apprehensive, yeah, but excited, too. Hopeful. Relieved?

At the time he'd shaken his head, kissed Jess, and finished packing his duffle. Excited didn't make any sense. It must be fear he was feeling, fear that made his nerves jangle and his limbs twitch.

Now, however, sitting in Bobby's cramped kitchen, peeling the label off his beer in damp, crumbling strips, he realizes he HAD been excited. Had thought that maybe this was it, his chance to make up for — whatever. For everything. His chance to look after Dean, for all the times Dean had looked after him. And if Dean couldn't hunt, well, that was maybe… a blessing in disguise.

He'd had these ideas, these lovely, hazy images, of Dean with him in California; maybe working at a local garage, eating dinner with them in the evenings, laughing with his mouth full of food as Jess told one of her ridiculous stories, watching t.v. while Sam did his homework…

… tying ribbons on kittens…

What the FUCK had he been thinking?

He realizes now how romanticized, how MORONIC, those ideas had been.

For one thing, watching Dean move around the house leaning on that hospital-issue cane like it's the only thing between him and a faceplant — he hadn't counted on that. Hadn't really counted on the pain, which was obvious and very, very real, though Dean tried to hide it. Hadn't counted on how he himself felt, watching his invincible big brother struggle just to get himself up from a chair.

But most of all – he hadn't counted on Dean being Dean.

Dean.

Who, bad leg or no, is obviously still the most pig-headed, contrary person on the whole goddamn planet.

So, okay. Maybe this whole thing isn't going to be as sweet and simple as he may have hoped.

But his resolution hasn't changed.

If anything, it's stronger. There's just no joy in it now, no private happiness at the thought of living with Dean in a stable, normal life. Now all he's got is steely resolve.

He's GOING to bring his brother back with him to Stanford.

He has to.


	6. Chapter 6

Nadie encendía las lámparas

Bobby gets home about an hour after Sam arrives, and all he can do for a moment is stand in the doorway, blinking.

"Jesus," he says, looking Sam up and down. "That was fast."

"Hey, Bobby."

"What'd you do, fly here?" Bobby asks as Sam crushes him into an embrace.

He might not be able to hold Dean like this, but Bobby, Sam can hug. So he does. Tightly. Puts everything into it.

Bobby pats him awkwardly on the back, raises his eyes at Dean over Sam's broad shoulder.

Dean tightens his mouth, takes a sip of his beer. At the sight of Bobby all his anger has come rushing back like a tsunami.

"If you didn't remember my cigarettes I will sharpen my knife and gut you gullet to groin right here," he says, startling even himself with the violence of the imagery.

Bobby raises his eyebrows a little, tosses Dean his smokes. Goes over to the counter to unload the brown bag he's got with him. Bread. Milk. Cereal. Beer.

Dean tears the pack open and shakes out a cigarette, gets it lit. Focuses for a second on the nicotine searing down his throat, tries to let it do its job, calm him down.

"You wanna tell me why you thought it'd be okay to talk to my brother without telling me? To talk to my brother ABOUT ME?"

"It wasn't Bobby's fault," Sam says before Bobby can respond. "I asked him how you were doing."

"You asked him how I was doing." Dean sets down his lighter with a heavy metal thunk. "Funny, Sam, you asked me that very same question – and I told you I was FINE. In fact, I seem to recall telling Bobby I was fine, too. You remember that, Bobby?"

Bobby's face doesn't change. He just gazes steadily at Dean.

"You had no fucking right, man," Dean says to him. "NO fucking right."

"No right?" Bobby asks, finally coming to stand in front of him. "I got somethin' better than rights, boy – I got responsibility. You showed up at MY door. You are under MY roof. And as long as you're here, you are MY. Goddamn. Responsibility."

Dean just inhales and exhales for a moment, stares at the table, seething.

He can't explain to Bobby that it wasn't so much that he spoke with Sam – that's not where this deep sense of betrayal lies.

He'd thought Bobby – fuck, thought Bobby had believed him. Believed IN him. Thought he'd been convinced by their argument at dinner the other night. He'd seemed to accept that Dean was leaving, was going to hunt again, and for him to do this — It shows a degree of distrust that leaves Dean hollow.

He doesn't trust Dean to make his own goddamn decisions, doesn't trust Dean to be able to do what he says he can do.

And that? That fucking hurts.

But Dean doesn't say any of this, can't, just slits his eyes and shakes his head. Sam's watching him from across the table, slumped down in his chair to an almost normal height.

Both Bobby and Sam are waiting for him to speak again, to continue his tirade, but he just doesn't have the energy. The very fact of Sam's presence is like a constant emotional drain, and though he's still angry, he can't argue anymore.

He's too tired.

Taking a deep breath, he gets himself up from the table. Does the only thing he thinks he can handle right now: moves towards the exit.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks, rising, but Dean puts out a hand.

"I need some fresh air. Alone."

Sam looks at him, nods. Sits slowly back down.

Dean slams the door behind him, and DAMN if it isn't satisfying.

Sam sits at the kitchen table, glancing towards the doorway every five seconds, fingers drumming a nervous staccato pattern on the tabletop.

"He's all right, Sam," Bobby says. "Not gonna go too far." He chuckles a little, but subsides when Sam fixes him with a lethal glare.

"Now, what exactly are you doing here?" Bobby asks. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't something of a surprise."

"I told you last night, I want to bring him down to Stanford with me."

"Guess I didn't realize you meant—now."

"Is he okay, Bobby?" Sam asks, leaning forward. "And I'm not talkin' about the leg. I wanna know if he's—okay." He holds his breath, waits for the answer. Needs to hear something good. Needs something to go on.

Bobby nods slowly. "I think he will be. He seems like he's doin' good. But it's hard to say, with your brother. Kinda difficult to read, sometimes."

Sam coughs a laugh. "You're telling me."

Bobby moves as if he's going to say something, hesitates, then starts again. "Dean mention anything about your daddy?"

"Says he's missing. Been four months. It's pretty bizarre, Bobby."

"Sure is."

"You think he's all right?"

"I don't know, Sam."

"I have… a bad feeling."

Bobby levels a look at him. "John Winchester can take care of himself."

"Yeah, but it's just – not like him. To leave the journal. To leave Dean."

"You left," Bobby points out, and Sam flinches. It's a low blow, and it hurts.

"Fuck, Bobby."

"Sorry. Not my place."

"It's all right." A few beats. "You know, I didn't thank you. For taking Dean, letting him stay here."

The unspoken is clear between them: Thanks for being here when I couldn't. When I wasn't.

"It's been a pleasure."

Sam hears the sincerity in the older man's voice, and he smiles. "You're a good man, Charlie Brown."

"You ever call me Charlie Brown again, you won't be holdin' that opinion much longer."

Sam grins, looks down at his hands. "I'm gonna go check on Dean."

Bobby shrugs. "It's your funeral."

Dean's propped up against a rusting heap of pick-up truck about a hundred steps from the house, staring at the metal guts of a dissected carburetor spewed across the dark earth.

"Thought I said I wanted to be alone," he says, exhaling colorless smoke that blends with the sky and dissipates almost immediately in the damp air. He doesn't look at his brother.

"I think I've left you alone for long enough," Sam replies, and it comes out more serious than he intended.

He can't help but grin a little when his brother flinches.

"If you get sappy on me, I swear to god I'll—"

"Gut me?"

Dean laughs, rubs a hand across his face, digs a heel into his eye socket. "Can't believe I said that to Bobby. Dude's the sweetest fucking thing since newborn puppies."

"Yeah. You're an ass."

"Some things never change."

They're both quiet after that, the reminder of those two years placed between them once again.

Sam is struck for a moment by the sheer impossibility of this situation — there was a time in his life when he'd have laughed his ass off if someone had told him that one day talking to his brother would be like talking to a virtual stranger. Stared in disbelief if someone had told him that he and Dean would go two years without speaking and end up together under a pewter sky in a junkyard in South Dakota, both of them gazing fixedly at the ground and trying to think of what to say.

His throat burns suddenly, and he wants to blame it on the smoke from Dean's cigarette, can't quite. He coughs roughly, trying to shake loose whatever's lodged itself in there.

"Sam," Dean says. "Come with me. Help me find Dad."

"No." Sam says, and he's proud that there's only the barest hesitation in his voice. "I told you, Dean. I made my choice. I'm done with that life, I'm not going back. And Dad – is probably fine. He's gone AWOL before."

"It's different this time, Sam," Dean says. "You know it. I know it. I've been reading the journal, looking for clues, and I think I've got some leads on where he might be, or where he's headed. There's some cryptic shit in there, but it's starting to make sense."

Sam is silent, still kind of working at that lump in his throat.

"I can't do it alone," Dean says quietly, and they're both surprised. It might be the first true thing he's said all day.

He clears his throat. "I mean, I don't want to."

But it's been said. It's there.

"You can't do it, period, Dean," Sam says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he knows it was the wrong thing to say.

FUCK.

The second Dean comes CLOSE to being REAL with him for ONCE and he has to open his goddamn mouth and ruin it all.

Dean's face closes up and his eyes go hard.

"Listen to me, Sam, and listen closely. I'm not going to pretend like nothing's changed, because it has. But I'm still. A goddamn. Hunter. I'm not dead, not dying, not sick or weak or stupid. Not some little pet that you can take home and take care of. I can take care of myself. Been doing it all my life. Not gonna stop now just because I've had a little bit of a setback."

Sam snorts. Fine. He wants to get into it? They'll get into it.

"This is more than a little setback, Dean," Sam says. "This is serious. You say you can take care of yourself? Then do it. Hunting? Hunting for Dad? That's not takin' care of yourself. Taking care of yourself means resting, it means staying off that leg, it means not putting yourself in situations with bloodthirsty, inhuman creatures who want your head on a goddamn spike!"

"Oh, for chrissake—"

"No, Dean. You need to face up to reality. This thing? It's not going away."

"I KNOW that, Sam!" Dean roars, stepping away from the pick-up truck towards his brother, knuckles white around his cane and the other fist balled. Sam tries not to flinch as his brother gets near, gets up in his face.

"You and Bobby," Dean continues, "both keep tellin' me shit that I already know, and you say it again and again and again like someday it's gonna mean something different. I KNOW this isn't going away. And I'm DEALING WITH IT. That's what you do in a shitty situation, Sam, you DEAL with it. Surprised no one ever taught you that at college. Life lesson. Learn it or you're fucked."

He pulls in a deep breath, shakes his head.

"I can still fight, Sam. So, all right, kicking's out of the question. Fine. I always kind of sucked at that anyway. But punches? Pistols? Shotguns? Knives? Crossbows? Fuck, man, holy water? What the hell do any of those things have to do with my legs?"

Sam takes a long step towards Dean, his eyes blazing.

He's not proud of what he's going to do next, but it's necessary. It's what he's got to do to protect his brother.

"You think you can handle yourself in a fight?" Sam asks.

"Damn straight," Dean says with a tilt of his chin.

Without warning, Sam raises both hands and pushes, shoves as hard as he can on Dean's chest.

Dean's mouth goes wide as he tries to balance, his bad leg buckling, his hands reaching out for air as he goes down hard, ungraceful, flat on his back.

He looks up at Sam from the ground, eyes unreadable.

"And that," Sam says, moving forward, "is why you can't—"

But he doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence. He isn't even sure what's happening. All he knows is that Dean moves, moves quick, his cane lashing out and all of a sudden Sam's on his back and his brother is pinning him down, fist coming at him faster than he would have thought possible.

And then everything goes black.

When he comes to, a wicked headache is slicing through his skull and his brother is sitting beside him on the grass, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the sky.

Sam leverages himself up on his elbows and Dean glances over. Neither of them speak for a moment, then Dean says, "Sorry, Sammy."

Sam reaches up and gingerly touches his face. His fingers come off with a thin smear of blood, and he can feel his eye swelling, blackening.

"Huh," he says. Dean takes a long drag of his smoke, looks away.

Slowly, Sam climbs to his feet, blinking up at the thin afternoon sun filtering through grey clouds. "How long was I out?"

Dean stubs out his cigarette, grimaces as he shifts position. "Bout three minutes. Three and a half."

Sam nods, swallows. "Hey, man, I—"

"Sam," Dean interrupts, reaching an arm out. "C'mon. Help me up, huh?"

Sam reaches down, grips his brother's hand and pulls him to his feet, steadies him while he finds his balance on his good leg, hands him his cane.

"All right," Dean says finally, starting back towards the house.

"All right, what?"

"I'll come with you to California."

Dean makes a lasagna that night, layers noodles and sauce and cottage cheese (they don't have any ricotta) in a wide glass dish while Sam and Bobby sit at the kitchen table and trade stories.

Dean doesn't say much, chimes a word in here or there. He knows Sam's waiting, keeps dropping hints asking about the two years he's missed out on, but Dean doesn't know how to begin to talk about them, so he just doesn't.

They eat all crowded together at the tiny round table, everyone in each other's way, beer bottles almost knocked over every time anyone reaches for the salt or a napkin.

Dean can't really look at Sam, can't really look at that freakin' twinkle in his eye as he re-creates this domestic scene in his mind, subbing Bobby for (hopefully way hotter) Jess.

His little brother's always been kind of transparent.

"This is awesome," Sam says, jabbing his fork into his fourth serving of the oozing lasagna. "You've gotta make this for Jess. You put her to shame in the kitchen."

Dean smiles noncommittally and takes a swig of his beer. He can't help feeling a little bit like the shittiest big brother ever, can't help feeling guilty, watching Sammy's happy face and listening to all the little comments he makes like, "You're going to love this one restaurant in Palo Alto," or, "When we get you set up in California"…

Bobby's cheerful, too, had raised an eyebrow at Sam's eye, sealed almost shut in a cushion of blue bruise, but hasn't said anything beyond handing him one of Dean's ice packs.

Dean lets Sam do the dishes because hey, he cooked, and he lets Bobby clear the table because, hey, he's a backstabbing asshole. Though Dean's finding it hard to stay angry with him.

He sits back, watches Sam and Bobby move around the kitchen, his brain dulled with beer and fatigue and Vicodin and pain and the fact of SAM, huge and all over the place and in a great mood.

He watches them and rubs his throbbing leg and thinks, just for a moment, that maybe Sam's got a point, that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, holing up in some crappy university apartment with his brother and his brother's girlfriend, getting some shit nine-to-six job for a while, waiting John out, maybe doing a little bit of research on the side…

But he only thinks about it for that one, brief moment, and then it's gone.

Dean said he'd go to California, and okay, he'll go to California.

For now, let Sam believe what he wants about the implications of that.

But there's no fucking way he's staying at Stanford.

He's got his own plans, and the only major players are him, Sammy, the Impala, and some heavy-duty big-brother persuasion.

He and Sam are going to find their father, together.

Sam just doesn't know it yet.


	7. Chapter 7

Nadie encendía las lámparas

Part 7/?

The next morning dawns just as grey and drizzly as the preceding day, a heavy mist falling steadily over everything, softening edges, blurring outlines. The pervasive damp soaks through the walls of the house and into Dean's bones.

He is sick of waking up in pain.

It's bad today and it blocks everything else out of his mind, makes it hard to concentrate on the real stuff, like the fact that his little brother is sleeping upstairs, ready to take him away to the sunny paradise of California. Like some twisted fairy tale.

He looks around Bobby's living room as he's swallowing his pills, realizes he's going to miss the place.

They're leaving today.

Sam had wanted them to take an airplane, HA. Like Dean would leave his baby to rust in Bobby's junkyard. Besides, planes are freaky. Big hunks of metal that fly? Dean's never understood why people have trouble believing in ghosts and yet accept planes like it's nothing.

Surprisingly, it hadn't taken much convincing to get Sam to agree to drive the Impala down to California – Dean suspects it's mostly because Sam wants to drive the car. Which makes sense, because yeah. Who wouldn't?

Last night after dinner they'd moved into the living room, where Sam could pore over the elaborate roadmap he'd stretched out across the whole damn coffee table.

Dean had his leg up, icepacks on his knee and his hip, but they hadn't helped much. Sam kept flicking his eyes over them, guilty, and Dean felt perversely glad.

Little fucker pushed him the fuck over, let him feel guilty.

"I was thinking we'd get our start tomorrow," Sam said, "early. It's should take about two days, if we make decent time. I was thinking we could stop at a motel for the night. For old time's sake."

Dean had been counting on this part, had planned this out. Sam wasn't the only one with maps and plans. "Sounds good. Oh, hey. We passin' through Rawlins Wyoming, by any chance?"

"Uh… yeah, actually, we are. Why?"

"That'd be a good place to stay the night." Dean tried to sound offhand.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "That's pretty specific."

"Yeah, well…" Dean thought fast. "There's this girl …"

"Jesus, Dean—"

"Not like that, man! I owe her money."

"Oh. Well, yeah. Sure. We can stay there."

"Awesome." Dean settled back into the couch, trying to get comfortable without being too obvious about it, but Sam's always had eagle eyes.

"You all right?"

"I'm incredible."

Sam had nodded, swallowed. "You know, Stanford's got a great pain management facility. I've got a friend that works there, I could—"

"Sammy," Dean said. "You're kidding me, right?"

"I hear they've got a really holistic approach, acupuncturists on-call and everything."

"Dude, I got enough pins in this leg. The last thing I need is more."

Bobby had chuckled from his chair in the corner, but Sam just huffed a sigh and went back to studying the map. Sometimes that kid had no freakin' sense of humor.

Dean went for his cigarettes, and Sam glanced at him, chewed on his lip.

"You know, man," he said. "You won't be allowed to smoke in my house."

Dean had blown a jet of smoke in Sam's face. "Okay."

"I'm just saying. It would be a really great opportunity for you to quit."

"Yeah, well, this? Right now?" He pointed at Sam with the hand holding his cigarette. "Would be a really great opportunity for you to shut up."

"I'm just saying."

"Yeah, you're always just saying." He grinned despite himself, laughed a little.

"What?" Sam had asked, but he was smiling too.

A tinkling noise filled the air, and Bobby and Dean had both jumped, searching for the source.

Sam, however, was calm, unsurprised, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fancy-looking phone that went vibrating and jingling in his hand like some demented fairy.

"Is that a ringtone?" Dean had asked in disbelief.

Sam had flipped open the phone and stood up with an ease that Dean envied, walking towards the kitchen.

"Jess?" Dean had heard him say. "Hey, baby. Yeah, everything's great. Everything's working out."

That's right, Dean thinks now, strapping himself into his leg brace, thinking about Rawlins, Wyoming and what's waiting for them there – Everything might just be working out.

He wrestles himself into his jeans, lights a cigarette, and promptly has a coughing fit that leaves him faint-headed with pain and lack of oxygen. He thinks grudgingly that Sam is right, that he should quit. He's up to almost two packs a day and if wants to be in top hunting condition, that just ain't gonna fly.

Later, though. He'll quit later. When some of this stuff has blown over. Maybe.

He hears a creak on the stairs and Sam comes down sporting a wicked black eye, flannel pants, and hair going in a million different directions, each one more misguided than the last.

"Hey," he says sleepily, coming over and plopping heavily next to Dean on the couch. Dean does his best not to wince as the motion jars his leg.

"How'd you sleep?" Dean asks, taking a drag and suppressing the cough that threatens to rise up again.

A strange shadow crosses Sam's face, just for an instant, but then he smiles brightly and says, "Great!"

"You hungry?"

"Yeah."

Dean struggles up from the couch while Sam watches, practically sitting on his hands in his effort not to try and help. Dean appreciates that. Although right now, given the trouble he's having, he'd also appreciate a hand up.

Can't have it all, Winchester.

In the kitchen he cracks a bunch of eggs into the big cast-iron pan, Bobby-style, and adds a little milk, some salt and pepper, butter.

Sam pulls up a chair to the stove so Dean doesn't have to stand while he stirs, and he gives his brother a terse nod, sits down.

Bobby comes into the kitchen holding a mustard-yellow folder that Dean finds familiar.

"Here," Bobby says, handing it to Sam, not looking at Dean. "It's got some stuff you might be interested in."

Sam furrows his brow, starts flipping through it, looks up with a smile. "Thanks, Bobby."

"What is that?" Dean asks, but as the question's leaving his lips, he remembers. From the hospital. Freakin' "caretaker instructions," something like that. "Oh, come on."

"You been doing these exercises?" Sam asks, then reads aloud. "The buttock slide?" He grins. "Insert head in ass. You're the master of that one."

"Shuddup," Dean mutters. "The eggs are done."

They eat in relative silence, Sam focused on the food, Bobby looking thoughtful, and Dean wishing there were cushions on these rock-hard kitchen chairs.

"You all packed?" Sam asks Dean. He is. "Then I guess we'd better hit the road."

Dean nods, moves his eggs around his plate. Now that the moment is at hand, he feels… he doesn't know how he feels. He's glad to get back on the road, and he's REALLY glad to finally take a step towards finding his father, to take some goddamn action, but there's a small part of him that…

It's been four months, after all. Four months of sitting on his ass being stitched and sawed and pumped full of opiates, four months of almost complete inactivity, four months of nothing to do but think about himself and his fucked-up body.

He's been out in public maybe three times since leaving the hospital. Once to the grocery store, once to the pharmacy, once to the convenience store. That's it.

He'd never admit this to Sam, but he's glad that his brother will be there with him, for the first couple of days. He's glad there'll be someone there to help him ease back into the rhythm of the road. The thought of climbing into the Impala alone and just taking off…

Not that he'd really be able to drive further than sixty miles in one go. But still.

"I'm gonna go up and get dressed, then we'll leave?" Sam asks, and Dean nods.

Sam washes his plate, chugs a glass of milk, and then he's gone. Dean's alone in the kitchen with Bobby.

Well. Guess this is designated mush time.

"Bobby," Dean starts, but Bobby shakes his head.

"I told you Dean. You don't need to thank me. It was no trouble."

Dean slams his hand down on the table, harder than he meant to. "Yeah, well, maybe you don't need thanking, but I'm not doing it for you, okay? I fucking need it. I need to say thank you. So just LET me without being all humble about it, all right?"

Bobby grins. "All right. Go ahead, Winchester. Make your damn speech."

Dean coughs. "I think, uh – I think that was it."

Bobby laughs and smacks his knee, stands up. "Okay, then. Let's get your shit together."

Dean lets Bobby put a hand under his elbow and hoist him up from the chair, because the guy wants to help and the least Dean can do is accept that, just this once.

Later, when they stand outside saying goodbye under a thin mist of not-quite rain, Bobby claps both boys on the back and mutters something in Sam's ear that Dean can't hear but that has Sam tossing back his head and laughing.

"You," Bobby says to Dean, "have got to take care of yourself. Don't be a moron. Use your goddamn brains, if you ever locate the owner's manual."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, but the look Bobby's giving him is making him feel uncomfortable. I see through your bullshit, it says. We both know you're not going to Stanford.

He tucks himself into the passenger seat of the Impala, Bobby closing the door and leaning into the window a little.

"Take care of each other," he says. "You need anything, you call."

"Same goes for you, man," Dean says, and they shake hands.

Sam starts the engine, and they're off.

"Man," he says, flexing his big hands over the wheel as they rattle down the long, gravel drive, Dean doing his best not to turn around and gaze back at the junkyard. "I missed this car."

Dean reaches forward, touches the dashboard, inhales the familiar smell; leather, unwashed clothes, gasoline, and beneath it all, the lingering scent of gunpowder and blood. Feels weird, being the passenger to Sam's driver.

As if he's reading Dean's mind, Sam says, "It's bizarre, man; you over there, me over here."

"Appreciate it while you can, Sammy," Dean says. "I'll be back in driving shape in no time."

"Man, if your car really were a woman, she would put out like crazy."

"Are you calling my girl a slut?"

"No, I'm just sayin'. She'd be easy."

"I'm begging you, for your sake — don't talk about my car that way."

Sam laughs, glances at Dean as he fidgets a little in his seat. "You okay over there?"

"'M fine."

"Think you'd be more comfortable in the back? You could stretch out. We've got a long ride."

"I'm good." He's not quite, though, can already feel his leg begin to ache. Today's really just not a good day. He twists in the seat, trying to keep the grimace off his face, and snags his duffle from where it sits in the back, swings it up front. Does a little adjusting, moves his seat back as far as it can go, strategically props his leg up on the duffle.

Looks at Sam. "Ta da!"

"You just let me know if you want to get in the back, or if you want to stop and stretch."

"You too, princess."

Sam snorts.

Dean reaches into his jacket, pulls out his cigarettes.

"Uh-uh," Sam says, looking over. "Hell no. Not in the car."

"What? I'll open a window."

"No way, dude, it's raining."

"It's my car!"

"But I'm driving." Sam smirks.

"Dude! Those are not the rules!"

"Sorry, man. Second-hand smoke's the silent killer. And I really don't want to smell like an ashtray."

Dean leans back in his seat with a thump, shoves his cigarettes back into his chest pocket. He knows he's pouting like a five year-old, but fuck, man! Seriously? "Silent killer"?

"Sam, you realize this is going to be a very long car trip."

"Yup," Sam says, flipping on his turn signal and checking out his rearview before rolling smoothly onto the highway.

Dean suddenly forgets everything he was about to say.

The sight of the road hits him hard, in a way he hadn't expected, deep somewhere in his gut. He swallows, mouth going dry.

There's not much by way of scenery in this rural part of South Dakota, nothing but the golden-green fields glistening with rain; the tarnished-silver sky stretched out vast and low above them; the black pavement of the highway, dark and endless.

It's like he's looking right at his father, just for a moment.

The hum of the Impala's engine, the rush of the wind, and that huge fucking sky.

"Dean?" Sam says. He snaps his fingers under his brother's nose, and Dean starts.

"Huh?"

"Where'd you go?"

"What? Nowhere." He reaches out, grips the edge of his seat, tries to tether himself down somehow. Sam's looking at him funny and he wonders what he did, if he made some noise without being aware.

"What?" he says again. "I got somethin' on my face?"

"No."

"Anyway," Dean says, trying to re-group. Where was he? Arguing about something.

"You wanna put some music on?" Sam asks, before he can remember. "The radio?"

Dean switches through the stations till he finds a song he recognizes, some old Neil Young thing, that strangely high voice floating out of the old speakers and filling the confines of the car.

He drums his hands on his lap a little and thinks he could use another painkiller right about now, but for some reason he can't fully explain, he doesn't want to do it in front of Sam. It would be like… having sex in front of the dog. Or something.

"So this Jess girl," Dean says, trying to take his mind off the steady thrum working its way up his leg and settling in his knee and hip. "What's she study, again?"

"Public health."

"No shit? Like, a nurse?"

"No, like gubernatorial policies, civic regulations, stuff like that."

Dean nods like he understands. Way to put a damper on the nurse fantasy.

"You guys, what, met in class?"

"No." Sam's lips are working their way into a smile, and Dean watches as it progresses across his face. It's a smile Dean's never seen on Sam, bashful and proud and … mysterious. Like he's got some amazing confidential information and he's never going to give it out. "We met at a party."

"Drunken hook-up, that kind of thing?"

"No!" Sam snaps defensively, then grins a little. "Well. Yeah."

That, Dean can understand. "So. What's she like? Besides hot." He'd been pretty impressed by the photo Sam had showed him, he'd admit it.

"She's hilarious," Sam says. "And fun. And so fucking smart. And she… takes care of me."

Dean snorts and tries a leer, but it feels forced. That was always kind of his territory. Taking care of Sammy. It's unnerving to realize how replaceable he is. By some chick, too, of all the indignities.

"Hey!" Sam says, reaching over and batting Dean's hand down. He didn't even realize he'd been working the pack of cigarettes back out of his jacket.

"Sam," Dean says. "This little dictatorship you got goin' on here? Not gonna work."

"Dude, we'll hit a rest stop in like—" he checks the clock glowing on the dash. 11:00am. "—an hour or two."

Dean bites the inside of his cheek, opens and closes his lighter. Switches the radio station, hums along with Ray Orbison for a song, then flicks to something he vaguely remembers having been popular the year he graduated high school. Some whiny dude singing about Mr. Jones, but he kind of likes it. He moves the duffle around a little under his leg, massages his knee through his jeans.

He gives it his best shot, he really does, for about fifteen minutes. But fuck this. "Sam."

"Hm?"

"My leg is killin' me, man. Can we stop for a minute? Stretch out?"

Sam throws him a skeptical glance. "We've been driving for like twenty minutes Dean."

"Half an hour."

"Didn't you ever read that story? The Boy Who Cried Wolf?"

"Your point?"

"My point is, I'm not an idiot. You don't want to stretch out, you want to smoke. And that's a pretty manipulative way to do it, too, I might add."

"Dude," Dean says, exasperated. "You can't have it both ways. I either smoke outside, or I smoke inside. Either way, it's happening in the next thirty seconds or I lean over there and yank the wheel out of your hands and then we're both dead."

Sam considers this, purses his lips. "Fine. Whatever. I don't want to argue anymore. Just open the fucking window."

Dean multi-tasks like a pro, rolling down the window with his right hand as he lights a cigarette with his left, the flame of the Zippo flickering in and out briefly before catching. He closes his eyes a little, takes a long drag, the water from the air spraying lightly on his face.

This trip just got a lot shorter.

"The air feels kind of good, doesn't it?" Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam admits grudgingly. "It does."

"You remember that time when Dad tossed that hot coffee out the window, didn't realize that—"

"The back window was open, yeah. And the air pressure just sucked it all right back into the car and I got coffee all over my face."

"Man, that shit was hilarious."

"God, I've never seen Dad looks so guilty. I got like a first-degree burn." Sam leans back, laughing at the memory. "That really was funny."

Dean grins, takes a pull of his cigarette, taps ash out the window.

It's starting. The Dean Winchester Hunt for Dad campaign.

Sam doesn't stand a chance.


	8. Chapter 8

Nadie encendía las lámparas

A/N: I don't know diddly-squat about Rawlins. So, although there is a Rawlins Wyoming, for all intents and purposes, the one you see here is completely one-hundred-percent fabricated. I just picked a spot on the map that is ostensibly partway between South Dakota and Palo Alto.

8/?

They stop for gas about three and a half hours into the trip, Sam cursing at the ancient, clumsy pump while Dean does his best to stretch out his sore leg, straightening his knee with a wince.

He waits till Sam goes into the self-proclaimed "Convenience Shack" to pay and then tosses back a few painkillers before heading inside to grab some coffee and a pack of cigarettes.

The going is slow, his leg protesting the hours spent in one position, and he leans heavy on the cane.

An old woman roughly the size of a six year-old holds the door open for him and gives him a pitying glance, and he grits his teeth and forces out a thank you, though what he'd really like to do is slam the door on her white-gloved finger.

Christ. Old ladies holding the door for him. Chivalry isn't dead, it's just in some sort of fucked-up coma.

Bells jingle as he enters and Sam looks up from where he's examining a dusty rack of what apparently passes for sandwiches in this gas station.

"Hey," he says. "Egg salad, or tuna?"

"Dude, I'd avoid the mayonnaise if I were you," Dean says, coming to stand next to him. Sam tilts his head and they contemplate the options.

"Go for the ham and cheese," he advises. "Can't really fuck that up. Cheese doesn't go bad."

"What the hell are you talking about? Course it does. It gets all moldy."

"Cheese is a kind of mold."

"No, it's not. It's the result of an enzyme process."

"Whatever, college boy. Just choose your fucking sandwich." Dean shuffles over to the coffee machine and fills a massive Styrofoam cup, his mouth watering at the smell. He can tell it's a little burned, but whatever. Coffee equals good.

"You hungry?" Sam asks.

"Nah," Dean replies, but grabs a bag of peanut m&m's when they get to the counter. Asks for three packs of Camels from the display behind the register and catches Sam's dirty look. "What?" he says. "They're cheaper here than in California, I guarantee you."

They walk back out to the car, Sam pacing his steps to match Dean's slower ones, and Dean doesn't mind. It feels like a tiny miracle, actually, him and Sam, here together. At a gas station in bum-fuck where-the-fuck wherever. Almost like a carbon copy of practically every day of their lives since Dean was five, every day up until four years ago when Sam got that letter in the mail.

Almost like a copy, except not, because now there are two of them, not three.

What's that old saying, two's company, three's a crowd?

What a fuckin' lie.

Three is the magic number, always has been. Three strikes and you're out. Three wishes. Three Winchesters.

"So," Dean says as they climb into the car. "I was looking through Dad's journal and I found some interesting stuff."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, his eyes straight ahead as he starts the engine.

"Yeah. He's been tracking weather patterns, crop failure, stuff like that. I think if we could get a handle on some of these patterns, it would point us straight to Dad."

"Hang on," Sam starts, but Dean interrupts him.

"Sam, this is shit we could do lying on a couch. We've got to do something, man, and this is easy stuff. Little computer work, reading a couple newspapers. That's it."

A beat and then Sam says, "You're right. We'll check it out. I've got a friend who wants to be a climatologist, actually. I bet he's got a ton of data."

"Great." Dean lights a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame, the wind rushing through the half-open window as they accelerate.

"I was thinking," Sam says after a moment. "About, you know, what kind of job you could get around campus. Something not too far from the apartment, something where you wouldn't have to be on your feet all day."

Dean grunts, picks a fleck of tobacco off his tongue.

"There's this garage about three blocks from us," Sam continues, "and I know for a fact that their classic-car guy just moved out to New York. So they're probably looking for someone."

"That right? I'll check it out," Dean says, and realizes that he really would, if he were staying. He's always been good with cars, picked up a few odd jobs at auto-body shops here and there, always enjoyed himself. Always felt a little sad to leave.

"You and Dad still running those credit-card scams?"

"Yup."

"Well, you're going to have to stop. It's too risky, if you've got a permanent residence."

Dean is silent, hoping Sam will take that as acquiescence.

"I talked to Jess," Sam continues, "back in the gas station. She's been clearing out this room we've got, we use it mostly for storage. It's pretty small, but it'll fit a bed and a night-table and a place to put your clothes."

"She didn't have to do that, man," Dean says, a twinge of guilt flickering through him.

"No, don't worry about it. She's happy to."

For the first time, Dean really wonders about Jess, as a three-dimensional person, not just as the cute blond he saw in his brother's wallet. How the hell does she feel about Sam toting home his crippled brother, foisting him on their lives like an unexpected anvil?

"What'd you tell Jess, anyway?" he asks. "I take it she doesn't know about what we do."

"No, and she's never going to." Sam shoots him a warning glance. "I told her you work construction and fell off a building."

"Jesus, man, seriously? You couldn't have chosen something a little more exciting? You should have told her I was a fireman!"

Sam laughs.

"But honestly," Dean continues. "She's cool with this?" Not that she's ever going to have to deal with him, of course. He's just curious.

"More or less. She's cool with pretty much everything."

"I don't want to be a homewrecker, man."

"Dean," Sam says seriously. "When you meet her, you'll understand. And she's going to love you. You both have the same way of bringing really disgusting jokes into any conversation."

Dean says nothing, flicks his cigarette out the window, watches in the rearview as it sends up sparks from the pavement.

His can't help but feel guilty as he realizes that the only thing he'll be bringing this girl is grief.

It's about eight o'clock when they get into Rawlins, and they cruise slowly through the darkened streets, looking for the telltale neon of a motel.

"That looks good," Dean says, pointing to "Best" motor lodge. "I like the name. Very optimistic."

"Looks like a shithole," Sam mutters, but he pulls into the parking lot.

"You've just been spoiled for too long," Dean says as Sam slides out of the seat. He watches his brother's lanky form move across the parking lot towards the main office, and flips on the overhead light, digging the journal out from the duffle resting under his foot, tries not to gasp in pain as he jars his leg. Fucker's sore.

He flips quickly to a bookmarked page towards the end of the journal, re-reads what's written there under the name "Rawlins, Wyoming."

Jams the book back in the duffle as he sees Sam come back out, floppy hair bouncing.

"Room nineteen," his brother says, getting back behind the wheel. "Seventy-nine bucks for the two of us. I said I'd go back and pay as soon as we were settled."

"May as well use these cards while we can," Dean says, opening the glove compartment and rifling through his I.D. box. "You feel like being Mr. Howard R. Diaz tonight?"

Sam looks like he's going to protest, but then grins. "I could do that."

The room is small but not tiny, decorated in a motif of yellowish browns and a strange baby blue that appears in odd places, running along the trim of the molding, woven through the pillowcases.

"Ugly," Sam comments, tossing his duffle on his bed. "All right, I'm going to go pay, and then let's get something to eat? I'm starving."

Dean waves him off, pretending to unpack his duffle, but as soon as Sam leaves the room he limps into the bathroom to get some water and take his pills.

The bathroom is like stepping into a pool; everything in it is that same baby blue, from the tiles to the towels. Coupled with the yellow light it casts an unforgiving greenish glow to Dean's skin as he looks in the mirror. He studies himself, frowns. Are the circles under his eyes really that dark?

He goes back out and sits on the bed staring at the no-smoking sign above the door, tells it out loud to go fuck itself. He thinks about going outside but his leg is killing him and he's not sure he can get up again now that he's sat down.

He knows he's been sitting in the car all day and it would do him some good to move around, but it feels so relieving to stretch out like this, on the bed. His knee still won't straighten out all the way, and it's worse right now than it's been for a while.

Sam comes back in, jingling the car keys.

"You ready to get some food? Lady at the front desk says there's some kind of cheap tavern right down the road."

Dean struggles up from the low bed, and it's awkward, more difficult than it should be. Sam is watching him with narrowed brows.

"You need a hand?"

"I got it."

He's on his feet, finally, and they make their way out to the car. He feels like his leg is getting stiffer by the second, and tucking it back into the front seat of the Impala is like torture. He wishes he had taken another Vicodin, but he really doesn't want to end up like that doctor on t.v., the cranky one who pops pills like they're candy.

The restaurant truly is close, thankfully, and as they pull into the tiny parking lot, Dean can feel his stomach start to grumble. He didn't even realize he was hungry until he looked in the glowing window and saw some bald guy about to take a bite of a huge burger.

"Shit," Sam says, his eyes moving over the cars. "There's nowhere to park."

"Right there," Dean says, "right in front of the door."

"That's handicapped parking. We'll get towed."

"Dude," Dean says, waving his hands at his leg, which pulses out an answering throb of pain like it knows he's talking about it. "Handicapped here."

"You got a permit?"

"Yeah, they gave me the little sign thing when I got out of the hospital. But no WAY am I putting that on my car." He digs through his wallet, comes out with the pass. "Here."

Sam looks at it for a second. "Huh. Awesome. I guess."

"Every cloud's got its silver-bullet lining, Sammy."

Sam's halfway to the door when he realizes that Dean's not following. Doubles back, sees that Dean is still sitting in the front seat, passenger door open, legs out of the car.

"What's up?" Sam asks, impatient, hungry.

"It's nothing," Dean says. "I'm just thinking."

"Well, come on."

"You go ahead, get us a table. I'll be right in."

"Dude." Sam folds his arms, feeling annoyance coming on, but then takes a second look at his brother's pale face. There's sweat beading on his brow and his breath is coming too fast. "Hey. Hey, Dean. You okay?"

Dean doesn't say anything, just doubles up a little, fists tight in his lap.

Sam feels a spike of panic sing through his blood and he drops to his knees beside his brother. "Dude, talk to me, look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Go inside," Dean says, after a long moment, "I'll be fine."

"I'm not leaving you out here like this, are you crazy?"

"It's nothing – leg cramp –"

"What can I do? Can I help?'

Dean shakes his head, rocks back and forth a little.

"Hey, hey, I haven't seen you take any meds today. Did you skip something? Forget something?" Sam curses himself, thinking of that yellow folder. Great caretaker he's turning out to be.

"Been taking them." Dean shudders a breath, grips the edge of the seat.

"Is there anything? Anything you can take?"

"No. Yeah. Sam."

"What? What?"

"In my duffle, side pocket. Brown bottle."

Sam leans over Dean to the space in the passenger seat where he's been using his bag as a footrest. Rummages semi-frantic through the pockets, finds the bottle. Twists the cap off. "How many?"

"Two."

He shakes two out and puts them into his brother's hand. "You need water?"

Dean twitches his head no, swallows them down, grits his teeth.

Sam wants to say something else, wants to do something else, but he's helpless in the face of his brother's pain. He puts his hand on Dean's bent back, tentatively rubs slow, smooth circles like their father used to do to get them to sleep. The only sound is Dean's quick, sharp breathing and the rush of cars on the freeway.

Finally, Sam hears his brother's breath even out, and he takes his hand away as Dean raises his head, looking washed out and exhausted.

"Dude," he says. "That SUCKED."

"What the hell was that?" Sam asks. "What were those pills?"

"Muscle spasm," Dean says. "Muscle relaxants. Happened a couple times in the hospital but so far I've been all right." He breathes in and out for a couple beats. Sam crouches next to him, waiting.

"Okay," Dean says finally. He reaches out and grabs Sam's shoulder. "Help me up."

Once on his feet, Dean holds onto Sam for just a moment longer, eyes shut, but then releases him and grabs his cane. "Food," he says. "Let's go."

"Dude, you sure you're okay? We could go back to the motel and –"

"I'm good."

Sam's about to protest, about to manhandle Dean back into the car, but he catches the stubborn set of his brother's jaw and nods instead, offering his arm, which Dean ignores.

The entrance is only about ten feet away, but the going is slow. Sam keeps his hand by Dean's back, just in case, and has to grab his elbow once when he stumbles on the doorjamb.

The inside of the place is bright and loud after the dark silence of the parking lot, and both Dean and Sam blink a little as they enter.

"Booth for two?" asks a harried-looking young hostess, not waiting for their answer before starting down the aisle.

"Smoking?" Dean calls after her, and Sam can see him trying to pick up his pace a little, catch up with her. He puts a restraining hand on Dean's arm and isn't surprised when it's knocked away.

"This is a smoke-free facility," the hostess declares importantly, setting down two menus on a booth in the back. She waits impatiently as they make their way up the aisle, then says before they can sit down, "Your waitress will be right with you," and hurries away.

"Jesus," Dean says, lowering himself into the booth with a grimace of pain. "What's her problem? It's not THAT busy in here." He sticks his cane under the table and carefully stretches his leg, trying to keep it out of the aisle.

"That girl was like, twelve," Sam says, unfolding his menu, pretending that he's not watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. His brother is still pale, but his face has smoothed out and he's breathing normally.

"I'm fine," Dean says, not looking up from studying the menu.

Sam ducks his head, caught. "Uh, I think I'm gonna get the meatloaf."

"You're a speed-reader, you know that? I'm still on appetizers." He looks up, hopeful. "Hey, you want those buffalo things?"

"Sure."

Dean smiles, hums to himself a little, peruses the menu.

The waitress appears above them, young and tired with a hard, pretty face and a mane of curly brown hair. She pastes on a toothy grin. "Hey, my name's Jen, I'll be your server tonight, can I start you off with some drinks?"

Dean looks up, smiles wide and warm and appreciative. Sam feels a little jolt in his stomach even as he rolls his eyes. He had almost forgotten that smile. He looks up to see Jen's official façade melt a little as she smiles back, genuine this time.

"Gimme whatever's on tap," Dean says, folding his menu. "And a glass of milk. Please."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up under his bangs.

Jen looks at him expectantly.

"Uh, same for me, please. Without the milk. And—" he looks to Dean. "We ready to order?"

"Cheeseburger," Dean says. "Everything. Oh, and some of those buffalo things. The appetizer."

"Wings or fingers?"

"Without the bones."

"Fingers, then," Jen says, making a note. "And for you?"

"The meatloaf, please."

"Okee-dokee. I'll be right back with your drinks." She smiles brightly and swishes away.

"Oh, hey, uh, Jen?" Dean calls. She turns back. "You got any local newspapers around here?"

"I'll see what I can do," she promises, and disappears into the kitchen.

"Milk?" Sam asks, unable to get his mind around it. "Really?"

"Calcium," Dean mutters, playing with the salt shaker. "S'posed to help prevent those cramp things." He kneads his temples, shuts his eyes. "Christ, I need a cigarette."

"What you NEED is to cut back, dude."

"I know."

"I'm surprised you're not hacking and coughing all over the place."

Dean laughs. "Did you know that hydrocodone is a cough suppressant?"

"So?"

"So, do you have any idea how much Vicodin I ingest daily?"

Sam is quiet for a moment, because no, he has no idea. He has to learn to pay better attention to these things. He shakes his head. "I'm serious, man. It's like hanging out with a bonfire. Except you smoke more."

"Can we please postpone our discussion about the dangers of smoking until we leave this lovely smoke-free facility? It's like torture."

The waitress – Jen – comes back with their drinks and a rolled-up newspaper. "This what you were looking for?" she asks.

"Perfect," Dean says, and Sam narrows eyes.

"What do you want with that?"

"Oh, just curious," Dean says, flipping through the pages with apparent idleness. But Sam can see intent behind his gestures, can see his brother's eyes flick searchingly over each word.

Sam reaches over and yanks the newspaper out of Dean's hands. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Dean says, reaching back, but Sam's not buying it. He shuffles through the pages, not sure what he's looking for.

"Give it back, Sam," Dean says, his voice low and dangerous, but Sam's not twelve any more and that voice doesn't scare him. Something's up. He can feel it.

Sports page, local arts page, articles about oil refineries, articles about the farmer's market… nothing that stands out. Until —

Sam flips the paper upside down and shoves it at his brother. "This what you were looking for, Dean?"

Dean glances down at the headline Sam's showing him.

_Mysterious Disappearances Continue to Baffle Local Police._

He looks up at his brother, eyes weary.

"Yeah."


	9. Chapter 9

Nadie encendía las lámparas

9/?

The voices chattering in the background, the clink of silverware, the shouts from the kitchen — everything is muffled by the pressure growing in Sam's ears as he stares at his brother, incredulous.

"A hunt?" Sam asks, his hands balling themselves into fists. "You wanted to stay in Rawlins because of a HUNT?"

"Not just any hunt, Sam," Dean says, leaning across the table, his eyes intense. "I told you I've been reading Dad's journal? Well, there's a whole page on Rawlins, and he wrote it right before he – whatever. He was planning on coming through here, Sam. It was important to him. This could give us some clues, give us something to go on!"

"So you manipulated me into coming here?" Sam's angry voice sinks into a low hiss as Jen comes back with the buffalo tenders and their drinks. She takes one look at their faces and scuttles away.

"I didn't—"

"You DID. You LIED to me."

"Well, how the hell else was I supposed to get you here?" Dean asks, slamming his palm down on the table. "Come on, Sam. This is Dad we're talking about. I know you two didn't exactly part on good terms, but how can you just sit this one out? You owe it to him to—"

"I don't owe him anything, Dean. He—"

"Oh Christ, forget I said — it's not about the owing, Sam, it's about the fact that he's your goddamn father. Your family. OUR family. I just don't get how—how you can—" Dean stops, his mouth working silently for a moment, like someone's pushed the mute button.

Sam sees him shift back in the booth, knows that if it weren't for the leg he'd be walking out right now. Sees the perspiration still drying on his forehead, suddenly has a flashback to not fifteen minutes ago when he was still doubled over in the front seat of the car, letting Sam smooth concentric circles on his back.

Sam only realizes now how instinctual that gesture was, the only form of comfort he could offer. He rubs Jess's back the same way, when she's upset or stressed out. It's automatic, and it calms him just as much as it does her.

He learned it from his father.

In a dizzying flash he remembers the feeling of broad, warm hands, a deep voice, soothing him after he'd had a nightmare or when the things from his nightmares had actually appeared.

And all of a sudden he realizes what Dean's trying to say.

"All right," Sam says. "We're already here. We may as well check it out."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up like there are invisible strings attached. "Excuse me? What the hell just happened?"

"Nothing. I — I don't want to fight." It's as close as he can get to saying, You're right. It rhymes, at least. "But Dean. It's just this once. Just here."

Dean nods vigorously, trying to contain a huge victorious grin. Shoves a buffalo tender into his mouth.

"So." Sam sighs, not sure what he's just gotten himself into. "What's Dad's role in these disappearances? Do we know what we're dealing with, here?"

"That's the thing," Dean says. "It looks pretty cut-and-dry, your basic will-o'-the-wisp. Blacksmith named Jonathan Schromer kills some girl back in 1905, and they run him out of town, into the woods right by here. He gets lost, starves to death, and now, a hundred years to-the-day after his death, he suddenly comes alive – well, not alive, but you know – and starts luring other people into the woods, young girls, mostly, pervert. They see a glowing light, they follow it, he kills them. You see? Dad did all the research, put everything together. He even wrote down the address of an old criminal's cemetery where I figure the bones must be buried. But that was four months ago, and he never did anything about it. Just … left it."

"Huh," Sam says. "That's not like Dad."

"No shit. So I'm thinkin', either something – happened to him, and he couldn't finish… or he had bigger fish to fry… or he realized something about this case that prevented him from wrapping up. I figure, we ask around, go talk to the people he talked to… maybe they can tell us something."

"Dean, you don't think …" Sam shakes his head, embarrassed. "No."

"What? Spit it out."

"Well, I mean, you saw the paper. 'Mysterious disappearances.' Is it… do you think the will-o'-the-wisp, this Jonathan guy…"

"What, lured Dad into the forest?" Dean snorts. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm just saying, it's possible."

"No, it's not." Dean eats another piece of chicken, talking around it with some difficulty. "That would be like you gettin' taken down by the Easter Bunny. Though, honestly, given how rusty you are, my money might be on hop-along."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Wouldn't hurt to ask. See if anyone saw him going into the woods."

Dean chews, takes a swig of milk, chases it with beer. Sam turns away. He's seen a lot of shit in his day – shriveled bones, maggot-infested corpses, piles of human skin, to name a few – but that's just fuckin' gross.

"Whatever," Dean says when he's swallowed. He's rubbing his leg, wincing a little, and Sam wonders if he knows he's doing it.

"You okay?"

"Peachy." He takes another sip of milk. "You think this is gonna curdle when it mixes with the beer in my stomach?"

"Oh, god."

"No, seriously. I really don't feel like gettin' a stomachache."

"I think you're probably fine."

Dean shifts his weight a little, leans on his good side. Sam knows he should keep his mouth shut, and he tries, he really does, but he can't help himself.

"Dean, if there's anything – if anyone gives us any trouble tomorrow – you should…"

"What?" Dean's eyes glint.

"Think about staying out of the way." He cringes as he says it, preparing himself for an onslaught.

But Dean just stares at him long and hard, then shakes his head and drinks his beer.

And Sam doesn't really know what to do, because he was prepared to argue his point, but he can't argue if Dean's not arguing back.

So he presses.

"I mean it, Dean. Let me handle the hard shit."

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leans under the table to grab his cane.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside," Dean says, one hand planted on the table, the other gripping the edge of the booth. He pulls himself to his feet, starts to move away.

"Dean, sit down, dammit. You don't wanna talk to me, fine, but don't walk away. It's bullshit and it's stupid and you're just gonna hurt yourself."

"I'm gonna hurt you if you don't shut up," Dean growls. "And unlike some people, I'm coming back, so hold onto your pretty pink bonnet and eat your chicken."

Sam stares, fuming and helpless, as his brother moves away, not sure if he should follow or not.

He suddenly notices that the other diners look up and then quickly glance down as Dean passes, recognizes curiosity in their faces, a natural voyeurism that drags their eyes up as Dean makes his halting way down the aisle.

With a startling pang of clarity, Sam remembers Dean's gait, can visualize it perfectly — that bowlegged, cocky swagger he used to try and duplicate in front of his mirror when he was ten.

He realizes he's never going to see that walk again and it hits him like a physical blow, like someone's punched him, knocked the wind out of him.

He can't imagine how Dean must feel.

Dean feels like a huge pussy for the second time that day as a harried young mother juggling a toddler on her hip pauses and gives him a soft smile, opening the door for him and waiting for him to pass through.

For the second time, he grits his teeth and says thank you. For the second time, wants to hit something so badly that his fists ache.

He doesn't, though, just lowers himself carefully onto a bench with a groan and shakes a cigarette free from his crumpled pack. Watches the smoke sift around him and blur the lights from the diner, blur the parking lot, blur the cars speeding by on the off-ramp in the distance.

He blinks a few times, tilts his head back, takes a long drag off his smoke. Is already itching to light another, and he doesn't know what that means; doesn't understand why he would want something he's already got.

It's like a roller-coaster, being with his brother again. One minute he can't believe his luck, the next he's fuming, can't even look at Sam.

"Let me handle the hard shit," my ass.

Four years away from his family and his little brother has so easily forgotten twenty-two fucking years of being taken care of? Since that first day when he was six months old, and forever after. Dean's ALWAYS handled the hard shit – that's the way it goes. And Sam's never once really doubted him, never once hesitated to ask him for help, to follow his lead. To trust him.

Until now.

And god, his leg feels like someone's taken a sledgehammer to it. It's hard to think, hard to focus on anything, feeling like this.

He thinks grudgingly that maybe Sam's got a point, thinks maybe he should look into acupuncture or something new-agey like that, cause the prescribed amount of painkillers isn't doing shit and he doesn't want to up the dose, doesn't want that sluggish feeling.

He digs a fist into his eye, rubs hard.

If he leans over a little he can see the back of Sam's head through the far window, just a pouf of hair over the tall back of the booth. He feels guilty, thinks he should probably go back inside. He glances down and realizes his cigarette's done, burned nearly to the filter without him noticing.

He thinks about smoking another one, stares at his pack for a long minute before pocketing it reluctantly and hauling himself to his feet. Goddamn Sam, always goddamn right. He does need to cut back.

The door of the restaurant opens as he's walking slowly towards it and a woman comes out, stands off to the side, flicks a lighter.

It's Jen, their waitress.

"Hey," he says. "Shouldn't you be inside, bringing us our food?"

"Shouldn't you be inside, eating it?"

He grins, gestures. "Where do you think I'm headed?"

She blows out a puff of smoke and smiles. "Your boyfriend's really pissed," she offers.

Dean tilts his head, confused. "What? Who?"

Then he gets it.

"Oh, no, dude, gross! That's my brother." He considers it for a moment. "Though I can see where you're coming from. He is kind of a bitchy little drama queen."

"He chugged his beer in one go after you left. Boom." She mimics someone taking a shot.

Dean barks a laugh, tries to get some weight off his leg, leans a little heavier on the cane. She notices, gives him a speculative once-over.

"What happened to you?"

Dean looks down at himself automatically. Right, like he doesn't know what she's talking about. "Uh, I'm a fireman. I was in a burning building and it collapsed."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Looks like it hurts."

"Not too bad." He shrugs, smiles, starts to move past her into the restaurant. He's uncomfortably aware that she's the first woman he's really talked to in… four months. Besides nurses, and they don't count. Except maybe Lisa. She counted. Oh, and Stacey. She definitely counted.

"Enjoy your meal," she says. "I'll be around to check on you pretty soon, see if you need anything else."

"My brother probably needs another beer," he says, and Jen laughs.

As he heads back to his table, Dean wonders, not for the first time, what sex is going to be like with a bum leg. A lot more girl-on-top, that's for sure. He's going to have to learn some new positions to compensate for the ones that are now out of the question.

Sam's cutting up his meatloaf, mouth tight, when Dean eases himself back into the booth.

"Look," he says before Sam can say anything. "I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. I promise you, I swear to god, that I'm not going to do anything stupid. So quit nagging me, okay? I'm not going to put myself in danger, and I sure as hell am not gonna put you in danger. So you have to fucking TRUST me. Can you do that, please? Or can you at least pretend?"

Sam hesitates, looks like he wants to argue, but finally nods. His eyes soften around the edges. "Yeah."

"Which part? The trusting or the pretending? I'm just curious."

"I trust you, Dean," Sam says. "It's not about me not trusting you, man. I'm just. I'm worried about you."

"Don't be," Dean says. "You'd be wasting your energy. What you should really be worried about is your spectacular bitchface, which is so convincing that our waitress thought we were gay."

And exactly on cue, Sam's face goes and slides right towards bitch before he can stop himself. Dean breaks out laughing, points. Sam turns bright red and immediately schools his features into a stoic mask.

"Oh man," Dean hoots, spearing a forkful of Sam's mashed potatoes. "You've got the weirdest fucking instincts."

"Says the guy who pulled a knife on a thirteen-year old girl when she tapped you on the shoulder cause you were sitting on her ipod."

"Self-preservation, Sam, it's completely different." Dean takes a bite of his burger. "Are you ever gonna let me forget that?"

"Are you crazy? It's more precious than gold."

That night, Dean watches as Sam puts salt lines around the doors and windows.

"You do that at school?" he asks, sitting on the bed to take off his jeans.

Sam shrugs, doesn't look up. "Sometimes. Freshman year, yeah. Always. My roommate thought I was a freak."

"That's 'cause you are."

Sam smiles, dusts his hands, turns.

Dean's sitting in his boxers, his leg propped up as he works to get the brace off.

"What's that?" Sam asks stupidly.

"A jetpack," Dean answers, ripping Velcro.

"I just – I didn't realize you wore one of those."

"It's all in the folder, Sammy, didn't you do your homework?" Dean gets the last strap undone and eases his leg out.

Sam stares. "Jesus."

"Yeah." Dean touches his knee gingerly. "Kinda looks like a home ec project gone horribly wrong, doesn't it?"

"God. Like I needed another reason to hate home ec."

Dean grins, scoots himself back against the headboard.

"So. Our plan for tomorrow. Wake up early, ask some questions, burn some bones. Sound good?"

Sam nods, pulls his socks off slowly, wiggles his huge toes. "I should call Jess, tell her we'll be back a little later than we thought we would."

"She gonna be mad?"

"Nah." Sam looks down at his feet. "I guess I'll call her outside," he says, leaning to put his shoes back on.

"Don't bother," Dean says, reaching for his jeans. "I need some air anyway."

"Right," Sam scoffs. "Air." He takes out his phone, eyes his brother. "Dude, you good? I mean, without that thing?"

"The brace? Yeah, I'm fine. Just makes everything run a little smoother, that's all."

"Okay... Hey, touch up the salt when you come back in."

The night air is crisp and sweet, and Dean breathes it in for a moment, leaning up against the side of the motel and listening to the hum of the highway. It's soothing, familiar, the lullaby of his childhood. He grins a little, thinking that other kids will never know what they were missing. Cars beat cradles any day.

He takes out his cigarettes, puts one slowly between his lips, chews on the filter a little. In the distance, he can see the dark outline of the forest where people have been disappearing. It's oddly comforting to know that his father looked at those very same trees not so long ago.

He flicks open his lighter, a brief flare against the darkness and then it's gone, the imprint of the flame pressed into his retina like a shining light hanging somewhere in the air far away.

He blinks, squints, takes the cigarette out of his mouth.

That's not the after-stamp of the lighter he's seeing. That's an honest-to-goodness light, glowing steady in the shadowy midnight of the forest.

Oh, shit.

He drops his cigarette, moves as fast as he can, hustles back into the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Sam," he says. "We got a problem."


	10. Chapter 10

Nadie encendía las lámparas

10/?

Sam's stretched out on the motel bed, cellphone in hand, but one look at Dean's face and he says quickly into the mouthpiece, "Jess, I gotta go."

Dean hobbles over to the chair and sinks into it, starts unbuttoning his pants.

"Woah, woah," Sam says, hanging up the phone. "Dude, what are you doing?"

"Putting that thing back on," he says, gesturing to the brace lying on the floor where he left it. "Here, give it to me. And put your shoes on."

"Dean, what's happening?"

"I just saw a light in the forest."

Sam runs a hand through his hair, bites his lip. "So you think…"

"I think our dead buddy's trying to play pied piper, yeah."

"Are you sure—"

"I know what I saw, dude. It might be something and it might be nothing, but whatever it is, we gotta check it out. Now."

"Dean, this is—"

"Sam." Dean looks up from the Velcro he's been fastening. "Will-o'-the-wisps put out their lights for one reason, and one reason only. They see a potential victim, they get all – glowy – and then, bam. Some poor sucker's hypnotized to death."

Sam swallows, nods, leans down to pick up a shoe. Looks at it for a moment, looks back at his brother.

This is the worst idea ever.

"I don't know if this is the best idea," Sam says, the shoe clutched tight in his hands. "I mean, you – we're both tired, we've been driving all day…"

"Sam," Dean says, pushing himself to his feet and coming to sit on the bed next to his brother. "I'll admit it. Conditions aren't ideal. You're way outta practice and I'm — you know. But no one's dying in this town, okay? Not tonight, not if we're here and we know what's doing this. Not if we know how to stop it."

Sam hates it that Dean's right, knows that if someone else goes missing while he was just sitting on his ass in the motel room then it's on his head. And he's really not in the mood to feel crushing guilt at the moment, thank you very much.

"But Dean," he says, a last-ditch effort, though he's already given in. "We aren't positive where the bones are buried — we can't get rid of him without being sure."

"Well," Dean says, "tomorrow, we'll be sure. Tonight, we'll just concentrate on getting whoever's in there outta there."

Sam looks at his brother, sees the set to his jaw and the earnestness in his eyes, and suddenly he's six years old again, watching Dean get ready for his first real hunt. Fear masked behind excitement masked behind that poker-face of resolve; his eyes the only thing giving him away.

"All right," Sam says, jamming a foot into his shoe. "But Dean — we gotta be careful, okay? You gotta be careful." He braces himself, ready for his brother's anger and indignation, but Dean just nods.

"We will, Sammy." He stands, limps over to the duffle bag of weapons he's stowed on the dresser, pulls out two guns, tosses one at Sam, jams the other in the back of his pants.

Sam catches the pistol with a solid thwack, and for a moment he just stares at it.

It's been a long time since he's held a gun.

The weight of it, the fit of it in his hand, it's all so familiar that it's almost a slap in the face. 'You thought you got out,' it taunts him as his fingers wrap around it, 'but you'll never really break free.'

His hands could disassemble this gun and clean it in under five minutes, could pull the trigger and hit a bullseye a hundred feet away.

His traitorous body remembers everything, even if his mind's forgotten.

"Got rifles with rocksalt in the car," Dean is saying. "These pistols probably won't do anything, but take it just in case."

Sam looks up, the gun still cradled in his palms.

"Hey," Dean says. "You all right? You think you can do this?"

"It's just been so long," Sam says before he can stop himself.

Dean nods. "Yeah. It has." He hesitates, looks like he wants to say something else, but starts moving towards the door instead. "Let's shake a leg, man. Preferably not mine. Ouch."

Sam climbs to his feet and follows his brother, out of the motel and into the parking lot.

"We know where we're going?" he asks as he starts the car.

"I've been looking at maps, I'll give you directions."

It isn't until a few moments later, when Dean's lit a cigarette and is drumming his fingers on his good knee, that he says, "Sam, you know this is going to be fine, right? Everything will come back to you so fast, you won't believe it. You're a great hunter, man. You always were, even as a kid. It's not something you forget."

"Yeah," Sam says, feeling the bulge of the gun in the back of his jeans. "That's what worries me."

Dean doesn't have a response to that, just breathes a cloud of smoke and says, "Make a right up here."

Five minutes later they're on a long stretch of empty road that runs alongside the border of the forest. The moon isn't full, but it's very bright, and Sam is thankful for the silver light it casts over the otherwise dark trees.

"How are we supposed to know where to stop?" Sam asks, but at that same moment the headlights glance off something shiny and his brother points and says grimly, "Yahtzee."

There's a car on the shoulder of the road, haphazardly parked half-on half-off the pavement, like the driver was in a hurry.

Sam swings the wheel and eases the Impala onto the grass with a bump that has Dean wincing, whether because of his leg or the treatment of his car, Sam doesn't know. He climbs out, going around to the back of the trunk and popping it open.

He grabs a couple flashlights and Dean reaches around him for the sawed-off loaded with rocksalt. "I'll take this," he says, "you take the shotgun."

"Do we even know where we're going?"

Dean shines a flashlight at the start of the treeline, trains it on a patch of bushes. "Broken branches," he says. "Whoever's in there came through here."

"I'll go first," Sam says firmly, and he sees his brother hesitate before moving aside to let Sam in front.

"I've got your back," he says, and grins.

Sam pushes through a tangle of branches, alert for where the twigs have been recently bent. The trees aren't too thick, and he can move relatively easily through them, following a path of kicked-up leaves. The recent rain has packed down the forest floor, and the places where the ground has been disturbed are especially apparent.

Sam glances back towards his brother. Dean's doing all right, isn't too far behind, navigating the uneven ground with only marginal difficulty.

"Eyes forward, Sammy," he says, and Sam feels a flash of annoyance.

"You're bossy."

"You're slow."

"Look who's talking."

"Just keep moving, Sasquatch."

"Do you think we should — "

"Shhh!" Dean lunges out and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, overbalances a little and has to grip his brother's arm. "Look."

About twenty-five feet ahead of them, there's a glimmering light, round and flickering, moving slowly through the trees. Sam can just barely make out a dark figure behind it.

"Hey!" Dean shouts, and both light and figure stop. "Hey!" he shouts again. "Get the hell away from that goddamn light!"

"Are you serious?" Sam hisses. "You think that's gonna — oh, shit."

The orb of light has grown larger and is changing shape, from a gently pulsing sphere to a human-like form that's yellower and brighter and somehow darker all at once.

Sam starts moving quickly forward, shotgun raised. He gets close enough to see that the dark figure is a young woman, familiar, though he doesn't have time to place her.

The strange light has dimmed and is fully human now, a man even taller than he, rangy and ragged and baring a mouthful of stumped brown teeth.

"Get back," Sam shouts to the girl, but she doesn't move, eyes wide, blank. Goddammit. He can't get a good aim on the ghost without blasting the girl full of rocksalt.

"Grab her," Dean orders, finally coming up behind him and raising the shotgun. "Get her out of the way. I'll take care of Jonathan."

Sam does as he's told without thinking, moving towards ghost and girl. Jonathan lumbers forward a few steps, lunges towards Sam, but Sam sidesteps him and reaches the woman.

"Hey," he starts, but it's all he has a chance to say before he's flying backwards through the air. The only thought he has before he hits the tree is, Yeah. I remember this.

He doesn't quite black out, but his vision checks out on him for a moment and the wind is so thoroughly knocked from his lungs that for a long minute he doesn't think he's ever going to breathe again.

Dimly, he hears his brother shout, "Sam!" and he struggles to sit up, pushes himself to his feet. He sees the ghost of Jonathan Schromer advancing quickly on Dean, who's standing his ground, rifle raised.

Dean's hesitant to take the shot; Sam can tell from this angle that the girl is still full-on in the target zone, and Dean's not quick enough on his feet to dart around to get a better line of fire.

Sam drops to the ground and scrabbles around for his rifle, churning up dirt and leaves until finally his hand hits the cold barrel. He swings the rifle up to his shoulder, stands just in time to see his brother perform the same amazing-backwards-flying trick he'd been treated to earlier. Dean hits a tree, crumples, doesn't move.

Sam curses, aims, fires, and pumps Jonathan full of rocksalt. His figure dissipates with a strange hissing noise, and the girl suddenly starts, comes back to herself.

"What the fuck?" she says, staring wildly around, eyes lighting on Sam. "Where the hell am I?"

Sam doesn't answer, just flaps a hand at her and runs over to where Dean's lying on the ground at the foot of a tree.

"Dean," he says urgently, and his brother's eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused.

"Ow," he says, then all of a sudden his eyes are perfectly clear. "Sam! Behind you!"

Sam whirls, rifle raised, but he's knocked out of the way before he can pull the trigger.

He doesn't hit a tree this time, just skids backwards on the damp ground a couple feet, feels a rock scrape painfully along his back, ripping the fabric of his shirt.

He hears the crack of a rifle and then Dean shouts, "Let's get the hell out of here!"

Sam staggers to his feet, rifle miraculously still clutched in one hand. "Which way?" he shouts, and Dean points from where he's still sitting on the ground.

"Come on," he says, grabbing the girl by the elbow.

She tugs out of his grip. "Who are you? Where am I? Why do you have a gun?" She squints into his face. "Hey. You're the guy from the restaurant! You were pissed at your brother!"

Sam realizes then where he knows the girl; it's their waitress from earlier that night. "Yeah, I was, and now I'm going to be pissed at you if you don't move! I promise I'll explain soon, but for now, trust me. You really want to get out of this forest."

"No shit," she says, her voice shaky, and she lets him usher her forward.

Dean has gotten himself to his feet and is leaning against the tree, breath coming fast. "We gotta get out of here before that fucker comes back," he says.

"Who – what the hell was that?" Jen's tone is dangerously close to hysterical.

Dean peers at her, grins. "Oh, hey, Jen! Small fuckin' world, man. How you feeling?"

"We can exchange pleasantries later," Sam snaps, moving forward. "Jen," he says, "I want you to run, okay? Just get the hell out of the forest, into your car, and drive away."

"Are you coming?"

"Just go!"

Jen hesitates but then does as she's told, moving quickly through the trees.

"Let's go," Sam says, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"Fine. Can you—?"

"Yeah," Dean says, moving forwards with a grimace. "Yeah, let's go."

Sam grabs his elbow and Dean doesn't argue, lets his brother hustle them both forward, going as fast as he thinks Dean is able.

They're almost to the edge of the trees when they hear a crack behind them.

"Uh oh," Dean says as Sam releases him. They both turn.

Jonathan twists his hideous face into a leering grin and advances on them purposefully, arms outstretched, fingers reaching.

Two rifles crack simultaneously, and two bolts of rocksalt smash into the ghost's chest.

"Jinx," Dean says, turning.

Sam shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile on his face, and they move out of the forest.

Jen's car is gone, a trail of burned-rubber tire tracks the only indication she was there at all. The Impala sits, shining and pristine, and Sam grins like a maniac, the adrenaline still coursing through his body.

Dean gets himself into the passenger seat as Sam tosses the weapons in the back, then comes around to the front and starts the car.

"That was easy!" he crows, and Dean laughs.

"Coulda been harder," he agrees. "But we still got some bones to burn. No way is this waiting till morning. I want that sucker torched, STAT."

"Lead me to the cemetery," Sam says grandly, stepping on the gas.

They find Schromer's grave pretty easily, a topsy-turvy stone in the back of "Rawlin's Ye olde Criminal cemetery," which is unguarded and barely fenced in, no doubt a project of some low-budget historical society.

Turns out, to both their surprise, that Dean can shovel just fine, if a little slowly; he develops a technique of leaning all his weight on the shovel to dig it into the ground, using it as support and leverage at the same time.

The grave is relatively shallow and the coffin is a cheap pauper's coffin, already cracked and rusted, easy to break open.

Dean pours salt and kerosene liberally over the bones, then offers his lighter to Sam.

"You wanna do the honors?"

Sam leans down and lights the coffin, steps back, watches the blaze burn bright against the dark sky.

He's always secretly loved this, though it's arguably the most morbid and unpleasant part of their job. He doesn't like the digging, doesn't like the bones, but the fire — the fire he likes. The scent of kerosene and the sound of crackling wood; for him, these will always be the sounds and smells of a job well done. He thinks briefly that maybe he'll start burning his essays when he's finished with them, a small echo of this, the ultimate blaze of triumph and accomplishment. But he knows it wouldn't be the same.

Back in the car, Dean is quiet, a strange expression on his face. He shakes a cigarette from his pack and rolls it between his fingers, stares out the window.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, confused. He feels great, elated. "We did it. It's done."

"Yeah," Dean says, sighs. "Like you said, it wasn't hard."

"It was kind of hard," Sam protests, thinking back to the way his body slammed into that tree, feeling the shallow cut lancing down his shoulder blade.

"I mean… Dad could have done this with his eyes closed."

"Yeah."

Dean leans down to light his cigarette, takes a drag. Turns to his brother. "So why didn't he?"

Sam doesn't have an answer.

Dean wasn't expecting one.

To be continued….


	11. Chapter 11

Nadie encendía las lámparas

11/?

The next morning, Dean awakens to a body so stiff and sore it feels like he's been sleeping on a taffy pull rather than an innocuous, if somewhat hard, motel bed.

He groans, hauls himself upright, gropes for his painkillers before his eyes are really open.

"Yeah," Sam says, glancing up from where he's cleaning the guns on the tiny table in the corner. "That's about how I feel."

"How's your back?" Dean asks, remembering the long gash he'd bandaged the night before.

Sam grimaces, rolls his shoulders. "It's all right."

"You want some of these?" He hefts the bottle of Vicodin in his palm.

Sam laughs, shakes his head. "I think I'm good. Thanks."

Dean slides his legs carefully out of bed, plants his feet on the floor. "Any hot water left?"

"Should be. I took my shower hours ago."

"Yeah? What time is it?"

"Bout eight-thirty."

Dean glances over at his brother, takes in the dark circles under his eyes. "Not sleeping too well, huh?"

Sam shrugs, doesn't look up, polishes the barrel of Dean's glock with great intent.

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, then reaches for his cane, collects his brace and his clothes, and begins the process of getting himself into the bathroom.

The shower's in a goddamn tub, which creates all sorts of complications. Dean has to sit himself on the edge and use both hands to get his leg over the side before carefully pulling himself to his feet on the slippery surface, hanging onto the showerhead so he doesn't fall over.

So this is why handicapped bathrooms have all those freakin' bars.

He leans on the wall in order to wash his hair and scrub himself, wincing as his hands skim over the bruises on his hips and spine, rub against a giant lump on the back of his head.

The hot water feels good, and he wishes for a chair, so he could just sit there for a while without worrying about wiping out.

He thinks idly that if he were staying with Sam at Stanford he'd buy a little plastic chair to put in the shower, thinks it would make things a hell of a lot easier.

Is immediately embarrassed for having such thoughts, not only because – come on, Dean, a little plastic chair? – but also because he's NOT staying at Stanford. So there's no use considering the what-ifs of the situation.

Climbing awkwardly out of the shower, however, perching on the edge of the toilet to towel his aching head, he thinks that maybe, just maybe it wouldn't be so bad. For a couple of weeks, no more. Maybe hang out till Sam finishes up the semester, use the Stanford research facilities, work on getting his strength back, practice sparring and shooting and moving in this new body …

Because the hunt last night, it was something he could have done in his sleep, before. It was easy. Easy. Yet every inch of his body aches and he feels none of the usual elation that he expects after finishing a hunt, no sense of accomplishment. He's just tired, and sore, and not one step closer to finding his father.

He dresses himself slowly, struggling with his pants and brace even more than usual, and he can feel frustration building up within him like white noise. He leans on the sink and stares at his reflection in the mirror, takes a few deep breaths, wills himself to calm down.

Sam knocks on the door. "Dean? I really gotta go, man. You almost done in there?"

"Yeah," he calls back. "Just a minute."

This is what he wanted. His brother, the hunt. This is what he's fighting for. This is what he wants.

He opens the door, finds Sam outside hopping from foot to foot.

"It's all yours," he says, can't help but smile at the urgent look on Sam's face as the door slams behind him.

"Hey," he shouts, sitting heavily on the bed. "Should we go talk to Jen? Make sure she's okay, explain what happened?"

"I don't know," Sam says, and Dean hears the toilet flush, the sink turn on. Sam comes out a moment later, rubbing his hands on his jeans. "I don't know," he repeats. "What the hell would we tell her?"

Dean eases his boot onto his right foot, does the laces loosely. "I told her I was a fireman… we could say he was a serial arsonist."

"Dean, that wouldn't explain ANYTHING."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, but to her it'll probably make more sense then telling her she was hypnotized by a vengeful spirit that corporealizes as a ball of light."

"Good point. Especially since corporealize isn't a word."

"What are you talking about, of course it is."

"It's a two-word infinitive. To become corporeal. To be corporeal."

Dean shakes his head. "Whatever, man. Language is an ever-changing process. Go with the flow."

Sam covers his laugh with a cough. "Fine. I'm starving. Let's go back to that restaurant, see if Jen's working. If she's not, we'll ask around, find out where she lives."

Dean cocks his head. "You ever feel like hunting is ninety-nine percent stalking?"

"Huh."

Dean reaches out a hand, makes a "come on" gesture, and Sam pulls him to his feet.

The painkillers have just barely taken the edge off this morning, and for the first time he gives in, goes for the bottle again, shakes a couple more pills out, swallows them down without water. He's starting to like the taste, to look forward to it. Great.

Sam's watching him, worry in his eyes, and Dean feels anger roiling once again; tries to hold his tongue, tries not to snap. He settles for a curt, "What?"

"How's the leg?"

Dean shrugs. "Think I slept on it funny."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Or maybe you got tossed against a tree."

Dean points a finger at him thoughtfully. "You know, that could be it. And here I thought college was useless."

"Let's get some breakfast," Sam says.

The restaurant is busy, busier than it was for dinner, and the hostess glances around helplessly for a moment before spotting an empty booth.

"Hey, sweetheart," Dean calls as she's walking away. "Is Jen working?"

"Yeah."

"Can we, uh, request her?"

"But you're in Caitlin's section."

"We're her cousins."

The hostess looks doubtful, but says, "Okay. I guess."

Dean turns to Sam, grins. The painkillers have finally kicked in and he's feeling pretty good, his words coming a little slow maybe, but otherwise good. "She got away just fine, if she's here."

"It's definitely a promising sign, yeah."

"So," Dean says, leaning forward a little. "I did some research, and there are six motels in this town. I figure today we can hit them up, bring around a picture of dad, ask some questions."

"Sounds reasonable."

"And tonight, we should do a stakeout in the woods. Make sure Jonathan's gone for good."

"Also reasonable."

"And then, if —" Dean stops mid-sentence, looks up, smiles. Sam swivels his head and sees Jen coming towards them.

"You guys!" she says, her brow furrowing. "What the —"

"You must have had a real scare last night," Dean says, smoothly interrupting her. "Did you get home all right?"

"Yes, but — "

"We've been chasing that guy over five states," Dean says, looking at Sam. "He, uh, does this hypnosis trick on innocent people, makes them set fires to important, uh, gubermanational landmarks."

"I was being framed for arson?" she asks, looking even more confused.

"Yep," Sam confirms. "Lucky we found you."

"Yeah," Jen says, still looking doubtful. "Wow. Thanks for that."

"Can I get a coffee, black?" Dean asks. "And a glass of milk." He flashes her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

"Me too?" Sam says. "But can you make mine a chocolate milk?"

"And I'll have two eggs over-easy, homefries, rye toast, bacon, sausage, and the short stack," Dean says, enunciating carefully. He's having some trouble forming his words. He hands over his menu and Jen takes it distractedly, trying to write down everything he said, tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth.

"I'll have six blueberry pancakes and a side of bacon," Sam says. "And one scrambled egg."

"Uh, okay," Jen says. "That's two eggs over-easy, homefries, rye toast, bacon, sausage, short stack, uh, six blueberry pancakes, and a side of bacon?"

"And one scrambled egg."

"And the two coffees."

"And the milk. One chocolate, one … white."

"Okay," Jen says, scribbling away. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

"Excellent," Dean says when she's out of earshot. "I think that went well."

"Gubermanational?" Sam asks.

"You know what I meant."

"Gubernatorial. Poor girl doesn't know what the hell we're talking about."

"She'll get over it," Dean says dismissively. He feels a little sluggish, knows he's slurring his speech a little, could really use that coffee; could really, really use a cigarette, but doesn't want to get up from the table. Doesn't want a deja-vu of last night's dinner, even though the circumstances are substantially different. For one thing, this morning he's no longer in the mood to throttle Sammy.

He looks across the table at his brother, who's looking right back.

"You did good last night," Dean says, fondness surging over him.

Sam half-smiles, shrugs.

"Seriously, Sam. We make one hell of a team."

"Yeah," Sam says. "We do."

Jen appears with their coffee and milk, sets it down carefully in front of them. "There we go."

"Thank you very much."

She lingers for a moment, hand on her hip, eyes darting between the two. "So, how did you know —"

"Tracking device," Sam says. "On his ankle."

"Oh." Jen nods. "Okay." She leaves.

Dean raises his eyebrows, takes a sip of his coffee. It's fragrant, strong, and he feels a smile spread across his face. This coffee is GREAT. He tries the milk. Shit. That's GREAT.

"This is awesome coffee," Dean drawls.

Sam nods, stops, peers at him. "Dude. Are you HIGH?"

Dean considers the question. Everything has gotten a lot better, that's for sure. The pain in his leg has for once been relegated to a dull ache, ignorable and mild, and there's something humming through him, something that reminds him vaguely of the hospital, when he was so pumped full of morphine he could barely speak. This is like morphine's lame younger cousin.

"Yeah," he says finally. "I think I kind of am."

"Jesus, Dean, how many of those things did you take?"

Dean licks his lips, tries to remember. "Four?"

"How many do you usually take?"

"Two."

"Fuck, man."

"No, Sam, don't worry. I feel fine."

"I bet you do." Sam looks him up and down, laughs a little. "You look like a cat who just found the best patch of sun in the world."

Dean smiles lazily.

"Seriously, though." Sam takes a sip of his coffee. "Be careful with that shit."

"Yeah, yeah, they gave me the pamphlets."

"I'm just saying. I had to take that stuff when I got my wisdom teeth out, knocked me on my ass."

Dean tilts his head. "You got your wisdom teeth out?"

"Sophomore year."

"No shit."

"Yeah."

"Get anything else removed you wanna tell me about? Your balls, maybe? Cause that would explain a lot."

Sam scowls. "Shut up, man."

They eat quickly, wanting to get out from under Jen's bewildered eyes, and they leave a giant tip, even though, as Dean points out, "We saved HER ass. Not our fault she's so confused."

Once outside, Dean pulls out the notebook he's been keeping of find-dad research. He's made a list of motels along with their addresses and phone numbers, and he perches somewhat precariously on the hood of the car, lights a cigarette, and looks it over, compares it with a map of Rawlins.

Sam stands by him, hands in his jacket pockets, scuffing his feet.

"All right," Dean says, taking a drag and jabbing his hand at the list. "We'll start here. It's about ten miles up the road, more or less." He looks up. "I'll drive."

"What? No."

"Come on, Sam. It's a short drive, and my leg feels better than it has in a long time."

"That's cause you're all hopped-up on painkillers, man. It's dangerous to drive on those things."

"Doctors said it was fine."

"Yeah, if you take what they prescribe. Which you didn't."

"Gimme the keys."

"No."

"Gimme."

"No."

"Sam."

Sam sighs, digs around, tosses Dean the keys. He catches them with a crow of triumph, tossing Sam his cane in exchange. Sam fumbles, misses, and Dean laughs.

He wants to take advantage of feeling this good, and there's no better way to do it then to get behind the wheel of his baby.

He pulls himself around to the driver's seat, lowers himself into it, waits for Sam to get in the car.

Turns the key and feels the engine hum to life beneath him, lets out a long sigh of pleasure. She feels good under his hands, and as he swings her out of the parking lot, he glances at Sam with a grin.

Sam grins back, shaking his head, trying to conceal it. "Man, you are crazy in love with this car."

"She's the only girl for me."

"That's sad, you know that?"

Dean doesn't answer, just moves into third gear and starts rolling down the window. Changing gears is the hard part, requires a little legwork that's not exactly easy, but man, is it worth it.

He flicks his cigarette butt out the window and reaches into his jacket for another one.

"Eyes on the road!" Sam barks as he almost doesn't break in time for a red light.

"Chill, Samantha," Dean says leisurely, cupping his hands around the flame. He exhales and flexes his fingers on the wheel.

"Dean."

"Sammy."

"Just… just watch the road, man."

The light turns green and Dean zooms forward.

Sam winces. Dean smiles.

They have no luck in the first four motels. They flash state police badges, show around John's photo, look through the guestbooks for a signature they recognize, but they find nothing that would point to their father.

The fifth, motel, however, is different.

"Oh," says the woman at the front desk – Miranda – taking the photo from Dean's hand. "Yeah, I remember this guy."

"You do?" Dean and Sam say in unison, leaning forward.

"Sure. Stanley Hopensaur, wasn't it? I got a great head for names and faces. He was here a while, ago, though, wow. Got to be about… four months?"

"That's right," Dean says, exchanging a glance with Sam.

"He in some sort of trouble with the law?"

"Not exactly. But we'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Sure. But I'll tell you right now, I won't say anything that'll incriminate him. He was the perfect gentleman while he was here."

"Glad to hear it," Dean says, smiling. "You might need your record books for some of these questions, by the way."

"Mind if we sit down?" Sam asks, mindful of Dean's leg.

They go over to the table in the corner, where Dean props his cane up against the chair, takes out his notebook, and tries his best to look official. Sam sits up straight and fixes a stern look on his face.

"Now, how long did Mr. Ho-Hopensaurus stay here?"

She leafs through the logbook, puts her finger on a page near the back. "Four nights."

"He say what he was doing here?"

"Business."

"What kind of hours did he keep?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean, what time did he leave in the morning, come home at night, that sort of thing."

"Oh, uh… usually left before 10am, came back around 4pm, then left again at 8 or so. Didn't come back in till real late after that, if I remember correctly."

"He seem… I don't know, disheveled? Uh, like he'd been fighting or anything?"

"I wouldn't say so."

Sam glances at Dean, asks, "Did he ever take things out of his room, like, packages of any kind? Duffel bags?"

Miranda leans forward, eyes widening, red fingernails going to pluck at the collar of her shirt. "Is this about drugs?"

"Oh, no, ma'am, nothing like that."

"Well. He had a lot of books. History, I think. Yeah. He said he was a professor from a local university."

Dean snorts before thinking. She raises her eyebrows. He turns it into a cough, clears his throat.

"Did he leave in a hurry?" Sam asks. "Like something was… wrong?"

"No-o-o," Miranda says slowly, "though there was something strange about the way he left."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, too eagerly. "What?"

She flips back through the logbook, frowning. "Ah, yes. Here it is. How could I forget? He checked out for a night after the first four days, said he had something important to do. But then he came back, stayed an extra night, and left the next morning."

Dean and Sam look at each other.

"Miranda," Dean says, his heart beating fast. "Did he say what he had to do?"

"He said… Yeah. He said he was going to South Dakota to say goodbye to his son."

To be continued…


	12. Chapter 12

Nadie encendía las lámparas

12/?

Sam isn't really sure how they get out of the motel, but they do, muttering something about asking more questions later and thanks for your help and we'll be in touch.

Then they're in the Impala, Sam in the passenger seat, Dean behind the wheel, neither of them making any move to go anywhere.

Dean lights a cigarette and Sam can see that his hands are trembling a little, and it's this observation that finally spurs him to start talking.

"So he knew he was going to—disappear," Sam says. "It was planned. He wasn't taken, or hurt, or killed."

Dean doesn't say anything, just takes a shaky drag and lets the smoke filter out through his nostrils.

"Dean," Sam says. "Talk to me."

"Maybe he lied," Dean says finally. "To Miranda, I mean."

"Did you see him? Was he there? Do you remember?"

Dean shakes his head. "I was out, man. I don't really remember t after that first day. I remember falling. I remember he took me in. But after that – I don't think he was around. Not when I was awake, anyway. And he sure as hell didn't say goodbye. So maybe what he told Miranda was… an excuse, or…" He stops, pulls on his cigarette, scrubs a hand over his face.

"Why would he lie?" Sam asks gently.

"Why would he leave?" Dean counters.

"Dean…" Sam says, thinking things through. "When you got to the hospital… what did the doctors say? I mean… did they realize… the extent of your injury?"

Dean is silent for a moment. "Yeah. They told me later, after I'd woken up, that I almost lost the leg. They thought I was going to lose it."

"Maybe Dad… He knows you, man. He knows you wouldn't… he knows you'd wanna keep hunting. Maybe he… I don't know…"

"Took off for my own good?"

"Yeah."

Dean breathes smoke, closes his eyes. "Then why would he leave the journal?"

"I don't know. Maybe that's what he meant. When he said he had to say goodbye to you. Maybe… maybe he didn't know what else to leave you."

Dean leans his head back in the seat.

"Dean," Sam says suddenly, something occurring to him. "Were there any pages missing from the journal?"

Dean looks over at him, confusion written all over his face. "Missing? I mean, he tore pages out of the thing all the time. So yeah, some, I guess."

"Can I see?"

Dean hands the journal over, curiosity getting the better of melancholy as he shifts in his seat to get a good look at what Sam's doing.

Sam isn't exactly sure what he's doing, actually, but he flips through the book, searching for something, anything.

And then truth catches up with instinct and he realizes what he's been looking for.

"Dean," Sam says, hands slowing down, pages still turning, seeking verification. "The thing that killed mom."

Sam can see the realization hit Dean as his brother's head rocks back like he's been right-hooked to the jaw.

"I'm such. A fucking. Moron," he says, grabbing the journal. "How the fuck did I miss that?"

"It's gone," Sam says. "All of it. Everything he had on it."

Dean is ripping through the journal, tearing edges and scattering ash everywhere. "Holy fuckin' shit," he says.

"He's going after it."

Dean swallows, takes a breath, shakes a cigarette out of the packet and lights it off the butt of his last one. Sam watches him smoke, suddenly almost envious. His brother's got his pain and his Vicodin and his nicotine — what the hell kind of buffer does Sam get?

"He didn't want to put you in danger," Sam says, reiterating, trying to work through it. "So he left."

"What a goddamn bastard," Dean says, but despite the bitterness of the words, his tone is plain admiration. Almost awe.

Sam stares at him, incredulous.

"Don't you fucking tell me that you're not angry," Sam says. "Don't you fucking forgive him just like that. Cause I don't want to hear it. He took off when you were in the hospital, Dean, when you were so fucked up on drugs that you didn't even know he was there in the first place."

"He's been looking for this thing for twenty years," Dean says tiredly. "He did what he had to. I woulda slowed him down."

"Goddammit, Dean," Sam says, almost yells. "Quit makin' excuses for him! That's all you do, man! Make excuses for the guy, over and over and over, and I'm sick of it! It's bullshit!"

"Sam," Dean says, his voice Vicodin-slow, too quiet compared to Sam's. "Think about it. Just for one second. You wanna pretend like you're on some high horse, like Dad's done something wrong, like you're better than him. But you're not, man. You're not. I don't know if you remember, but you left too, Sam. And I didn't question you. Hell, I wanted to. But I didn't. I helped you pack; I forged your health records, forged Dad's signature on everything; I drove you to the goddamn bus stop. I'm not blaming you, man. You did what you had to do; I get it. And Dad? Dad's doing what he has to do. Again, I get it. The question is: why the FUCK can't you?"

Sam, for once in his life, is stunned speechless.

Dean leans down, starts the car, winces a little as he puts it in gear. "Screw stakeout tonight, man. Let's get the hell out of this town."

After they've checked out, after they've packed up the car without speaking, after Sam's driven out of Rawlins and onto the highway, Dean looks over and says, "This doesn't change anything, you know."

"What are you talking about?"

"We've still gotta find him."

"Why?" Sam asks. "He obviously doesn't want to be found."

"Because this isn't just his fight, Sam. It's ours. Our mom. Our whole goddamn lives."

"Are we really going to have this argument?" Sam demands. "Cause I'm pretty sure we had it already. And I'm pretty sure we agreed that you'd come to Stanford, quit hunting, settle down. Take care of yourself, for once."

Dean closes his eyes. He can't argue in the face of Sam's fury, and fuck, is Sam furious. Dean hasn't realized it until this moment, how ANGRY his brother is. At everything, all the time. He hasn't realized, until this moment, how angry he is. How angry their father is. Their family's been built on anger, honed it into an art form.

The thought is exhausting.

"Sam," he says, not opening his eyes. "We have to find him. Okay? We have to."

He can feel Sam soften beside him. Angry, yeah. But so quick to let go. "We'll do what we can, Dean," Sam promises. "I told you. We'll make calls, we'll do some research. Ask whoever we can think of to ask. All that stuff. But we're not going after him. You're not going after him."

"Wake me up if we stop," Dean says, and pillows his head on his arm.

Tries to sleep. Can't.

They stop for dinner around nine o'clock in a little diner that doesn't serve alcohol, to Sam's annoyance. If he's ever needed a drink, it's now.

His brother's been pretty quiet since they left Rawlins at noon, alternately sleeping and smoking and playing DJ, flipping through radio stations and switching out cassettes after every song. When they'd stopped for gas at around four he'd moved into the back without comment, stretched out his leg with a duffle under his knee.

Now, at the diner, Sam slides into a handicapped parking spot, follows Dean up the ramp instead of the stairs. Lets Dean hold the door open for him.

He's apprehensive about actually getting to California, scared of how things will change when they're there, with Jess. He's never… shared Dean with anyone at school before. It was too hard, too painful, too deep to explain his brother to anyone. He doesn't know how to talk about Dean out of the context of their lives, of their childhoods; of hunting.

He's tried telling anecdotes to Jess, now and again, little things… but everything always comes out wrong. Dean comes from a world none of his friends even know exist. How can he explain that?

He told Dean not to worry, but honestly? He has no idea what to expect, no idea what will happen when he gets Jess and Dean in a room together. He's the only thing they have in common, the two people he loves most in the world. Along with his father, whom he also hates more than anyone in the world.

"What's up, Sam?" Dean asks, reaching across the booth to almost touch his brother's hand. "You look like the night of the living dead over there."

"Huh? Oh. Nothin'. Just trying to figure out what I want to order."

"I was thinking about the mozzarella sticks. To start. You in?"

"Sure."

Dean closes his menu, studies the placemats on the table, paper things meant for children to draw on. A connect-the-dots, a simple crossword, a dinosaur to color in.

"You got a pen?" Dean asks, tracing the connect-the-dots with his finger.

"No," Sam says, glancing over. "Dude, it's obviously a kitten. Look, they already drew in the nose."

"Could be a bunny."

"No way."

"Or a little puppy."

"Does that look like a puppy's nose to you?"

"Could be."

"It's a kitten, Dean," Sam says. "I swear to god."

"Hey," Dean greets the waitress as she approaches. "Could we get some crayons, you think?"

"Sure," she says, flashing dimples. Even Sam is charmed. "Can I get you guys something to drink, in the meantime?"

"Milk," Dean says. "Or, hey. You got milkshakes?"

"Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, or banana," she says.

"Banana? I'll take banana. There's milk in those, right?"

"Yeah. And ice cream."

"And ice cream's got calcium?"

"Dude," Sam says. "Why don't we just get you some calcium supplements?"

Dean gives him a pained look. "Tell this girl what you want to drink, Sammy."

"Uh, vanilla milkshake. And some water. Thank you."

"And mozzarella sticks."

"Coming right up. With a side of crayons." She dimples again and flutters off.

"Please don't ever let me hear you say 'calcium supplement' in front of a cute girl," Dean says. "Seriously."

"Should we stay the night somewhere?" Sam asks. "Or just keep going?"

"How long do we have left?"

"Probably about ten hours, twelve. Maybe more."

"You're driving," Dean points out. "Are you tired?"

"Not at the moment."

"But you're gonna be."

"Probably."

"I could drive about an hour, I think," Dean says. "Maybe."

Sam shrugs, shakes his head. "I can keep going. If I get real tired I'll pull off somewhere, nap in the car. I just want to get there."

"Yeah," Dean says, and sighs.

"You okay, man?"

Dean snorts. "Are YOU okay?"

"Not really."

"Yeah."

The waitress comes back with the crayons and the milkshakes, and Sam feels like a four-year old when she presents them with two bright green bendy straws. He can't help his eyes from lighting up. Man, he's always loved crazy straws.

He slurps his milkshake as Dean works on the connect-the-dots.

It's a kitten. He knew it.

Dean shrugs when he sees the picture, goes for his milkshake. "Dude. This banana is awesome."

"Lemme try." Sam pulls Dean's milkshake over to him. "Shit, yours is better. Why the hell did I get vanilla?"

Dean grins. "We can trade, if you want. I don't mind vanilla."

"Seriously?"

"Go ahead."

"Thanks, man."

Dean watches Sam attack the banana, smiling a little. Kid's so easy to please, sometimes.

They eat their dinner quickly, perfunctorily, neither of them tasting much. The painkillers have worn off long ago and Dean's leg throbs steadily through the meal. He wants to get back to the car so he can take a Vicodin, stretch out again in the backseat.

After the meal they go to the gas station next door, where Sam buys a huge cup of coffee and Dean gets a pack of cigarettes.

Dean pops a vicodin and sits in the front, knowing he'll probably be moving into the back sooner or later. He fiddles with his cigarettes as Sam's checking the rearview. "Jess know we're coming?" he asks, tearing cellophane.

"Yeah."

Dean goes to light a cigarette just as the car goes over a speedbump, nearly singes off his eyelashes. "Jesus!"

Sam grins. "Remember when we got those fireworks, when I was in tenth grade? And you burned off your eyebrows?"

"Fuck, that hurt."

"You looked like an alien."

"A good-looking alien."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"So what time you think we'll get to Stanford?" Dean asks.

"Dunno. Round ten in the morning, maybe? If we don't stop too much."

"Your woman gonna cook us breakfast?"

Sam raises an eyebrow, shakes his head. "No. But if you're real nice, she might go out and get us muffins."

"I prefer bagels. Tell her that."

"I've got to do some work tomorrow," Sam says, ignoring him. "I'm a little behind because of the classes I skipped. But Jess is free all day. So you two will have some time to bond."

"Hallelujah."

"Maybe you can take a walk around campus. She can give you the tour."

"Maybe." Dean takes a long drag, flicks ash.

"Don't be worried, dude."

"I'm not worried," Dean scoffs.

But he is.

Sam is right. They get into Palo Alto at ten fifteen. Dean is asleep in the backseat, but he wakes up when he feels the car stop.

"We there?" he asks, struggling upright, rubbing a fist into his eyes.

"Yup," Sam says, twisting around to look at his brother. "We're home."

Dean gazes out the window. They're in a residential neighborhood full of big, split-family houses — obviously student houses, from the beer cans on the porches and the unkempt lawns. The Impala, he's pleased to note, is by far the nicest car on the street.

Dean leverages himself to his feet, hanging onto the door and reaching back in for his cane. He's not ready, wants some time to collect himself, to smoke a cigarette, but Sam's already climbed out of the car, has moved around to the trunk and is rummaging around.

Dean reaches the trunk as Sam slings both duffles over his shoulder, twisting out of Dean's grasp. "I've got them," Sam says. "Save your energy for the stairs."

"Stairs?"

Sam points.

"That's your house?" Dean asks, his eyes traveling slowly upwards. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Yeah, dude, I'm really sorry. We'll do something about it, put some planks down for a ramp, something like that."

"Oh my god." Dean follows his brother, trying to quell the beat of nerves he feels in his stomach, not just from the prospect of hiking up to the second floor. Sam's new life is at the top of those stairs; everything he left for, everything he won't leave behind, everything that has nothing to do with everything Dean knows about his brother.

He gets up the first seven or so steps all right, starts to lag around the tenth, has to take a break at the fifteenth.

"Jesus," he says, leaning against the railing, eyes shut. "I'm never going to get out of here. I'm gonna be like Rapunzel, locked in a freakin' tower."

"I never thought I'd hear you compare yourself to a princess," Sam says, offering his arm, which Dean takes grudgingly, gritting his teeth and starting back up the stairs.

Finally, they reach the top, and Sam puts down the bags in order to shuffle his pockets around, looking for his key. Dean takes the moment to catch his breath, which is still coming fast from the climb, takes a moment to compose himself, to steep himself. He's entering unfamiliar territory, a place where the rules of his life don't apply.

He hates not knowing the rules.

Sam finds his key with a crow of triumph, but before he can do anything, there's a muffled thump from behind the door and a female voice mutters, "shit."

Then the lock clicks and the doorknob turns and the door swings open.


	13. Chapter 13

Nadie encendía las lámparas

13/?

Jess hears Dean's voice before she hears Sam's; she isn't sure how she knows, but she's absolutely certain it's Dean the second she hears the muffled tones rising from the street outside their apartment.

She realizes then that she has no mental image whatsoever for Sam's brother, hasn't been able to summon up a picture of what he might be like. She has no idea who this deep voice belongs to.

She hears Sam a moment later, and then there's the slam of a car trunk. The clump of feet on wooden stairs, slow and arrhythmic.

She stands, wipes her suddenly sweating hands on her jeans, glances around the kitchen like maybe she's forgotten to do something. Her heart is beating fast. She pushes the kitchen chairs into the table, then pulls them out again. Checks her reflection in the mirror, puts her hair up, straightens her blue t-shirt.

She hears the footsteps stop about halfway up, and there's the low hum of voices, Sam laughing at something, then they start again.

Dean. Sam's brother. Sam. Sam and his brother.

Sam doesn't talk about his family, aside from a few enigmatic comments that have done more to provoke her curiosity than assuage it. But she sees it, in his eyes, the flicker of emotion he masks with shrugs and deflections: he misses them. His father and his brother.

She knows they argued before he left, but she's unclear about what. It's something she's still working on, unraveling that strange, hidden part of Sam; Sam, who's otherwise the most open guy she's ever met.

Once while she was looking for socks, she found a photograph in his drawer of two kids, one about four and the other maybe eight. The little one is recognizably Sam, pretty much the cutest thing she's ever seen, and she assumes the older boy is Dean. Sam claims to have no pictures from his childhood.

It was a shock, seeing that photo there. She studies it sometimes when he's out. Looking for clues.

And now, the biggest clue of all is landing right on her doorstep.

There's a thump from outside the kitchen, on the landing, and she hears Sam say clearly, "Where the hell did I put the key?"

She waits for a moment, tries to be patient, but patience was never her strong suit. She gives up and darts over to the door, fumbling at the lock. God, she's really nervous.

Really, really, really fucking nervous. Shit.

Finally the lock clicks into place and she yanks open the door.

Sam looks up like a deer caught in headlights, and she focuses on him, doesn't think yet about the man standing a little ways behind him.

"Hey," Sam says, wrapping his arms around her, passing his lips briefly over her mouth like he doesn't want to kiss her properly in front of his brother.

"Welcome home," she says, muffled against his t-shirt, lets him hold her for a second. Then she pushes back, away, and turns to look at Dean.

"This is my brother Dean," Sam says unnecessarily. "Dean, this is Jess."

Dean smiles, slow and smooth, and holy shit, Jess is a loyal girlfriend and Sam is great-looking — but jesus christ, his brother is beautiful. There's just no other word for it. His face is saved from being too pretty by the lines around his eyes, the set to his jaw, a slightly crooked nose — and the fact that he looks like kind of an asshole.

"Hey," Dean says, eyes traveling up and down her body. "You are way out of my brother's league."

Yeah. Kind of an asshole. She blushes, tries to think of something clever to say.

"That's what she's always telling me, " Sam says, and leans down to pick up the bags.

"Let me," Jess says, grabbing at one of them, and Dean smiles at her again, but it's a real smile this time. She realizes with a start that he's just as nervous as she is.

Huh. Maybe not such an asshole.

She and Sam move into the kitchen, and she turns to Dean, who's coming slowly into the house.

She was so full of nerves, so blindsided by the happiness of seeing Sam and by the excitement of Dean's presence, that she almost forgot why Dean's here in the first place; it's kind of a shock to look back and see him walk and remember. He's not doing too well; leaning heavily on the cane she's just noticed, his step hitched and painful, slow.

Tension is radiating off Sam, and she feels it, too. It's kind of like listening to someone with a terrible stutter trying to get a word out — you know what they want to say, and you want to just say it for them, but you can't. You have to wait.

She feels that same frustration, watching Dean walk. She wants to go over and pick him up, carry him inside, can feel that Sam's just barely restraining himself from doing exactly that, but she knows, too, instinctively, that Dean's the kind of guy who wants to finish the word himself.

Dean looks up as he passes her, sees her watching him. A flash of self-consciousness flickers across his face, then he kind of half smiles. "Those steps are murder," he says.

"I know," she says. "They kill me every day, and I'm not even — I mean, I don't— I can—" She flinches, stops talking. She's such an idiot, putting her foot so far in it's never gonna come out.

But Dean just grins, like he doesn't notice she's being a total moron.

She closes the door behind him and drops the duffel onto the floor of their small kitchen.

"God, I'm tired," Sam says, stretching his long arms over his head.

"Have you slept at all?" she asks, casting an appraising eye over him. "You look like a zombie."

"I've had like eight cups of coffee," he says, reaching for her. "Dean was supposed to keep me awake, but he fell asleep."

She puts her head on his shoulder, smells something funny, takes a long sniff. "You smell like an ashtray," she accuses, wrinkling her nose.

"Dean's fault."

Dean rolls his shoulders, almost a shrug but not quite. He looks worse than Sam, actually, dark circles under his eyes, skin pale. He's leaning on the wall, cane loose in one hand, eyes roving the kitchen in a way that's somehow familiar.

Sam. Sam looks around like that, when they're in new places. His back to the wall, eyes seeking out the dark corners. Dean and Sam look nothing alike, at first glance – but then again, they do. Like this. And in other ways that she'll think about later.

"I got some muffins," she says, "and bagels. So I thought we'd eat, and then you guys can get some sleep. You look like you need it."

"Come on," Sam says to Dean, hoisting the duffle bags back onto his shoulder. "Let's throw this stuff down and I'll give you the grand tour. Then we'll have breakfast. Then we'll sleep."

Dean pushes himself off the wall, moves after Sam. "What kind of muffins you get?" he asks Jess.

"Um, blueberry, cranberry, and lemon poppy seed. Is that all right?"

"You kidding? It's awesome."

"This is the living room," Sam announces, spreading his arms and turning in a small circle.

Jess looks at it with a critical eye, trying to imagine how Dean sees it. It's small and cheaply furnished, nothing more than a beat-up couch, a shabby armchair, a stained coffee table, and a tiny television, but Dean whistles low and says, "Jesus, Sammy."

As Jess is trying to process that "Sammy," Dean limps over to the far wall and studies the photograph hanging there. It was taken last Thanksgiving, when Sam had come home with her for the long weekend. It's kind of a silly photograph, all of them sitting round the dinner table in front of a big turkey, Sam sandwiched awkwardly between Jess and her mother, a good head taller than anyone else, but Sam had liked it for some reason, so she put it up.

"That's at my house in Mill Valley," Jess explains. "Last year."

"Jesus," Dean says again. Jess isn't sure how to interpret that reaction.

"Come on," Sam says, looking strangely embarrassed. "Your room's through here."

Jess follows, hovering a little, watching for Dean's reaction. She'd worked hard to make it as homey as she could; put some flowers on the small chest of drawers, opened up the window so it filled with sun, covered the bed with a warm yellow quilt her mom had made.

"Wow, Jess," Sam says. "It looks great in here!"

"I got rid of that ugly old chair," she says, "you know, the one we got from Greg last spring? I figured it was time, we never used it anyway, so I just put it out with a free sign. A nice family took it, I warned them it was uncomfortable but they seemed to like it, so I…" she trails off, aware that she's babbling.

Dean is leaning against the doorjamb, looking around, his face inscrutable. Sam drops his duffle onto the bed, and Dean says finally, "Thanks, Jess. For doing this."

"Oh, no worries! This room needed cleaning anyway, it was so gross in here, top to bottom junk and dust, I just put on some music and went to work. It didn't take long."

"Well." Dean glances up at her. "It's. It looks. Really nice."

Despite the hesitance of his words, she hears the sincerity in his voice, and beams at him. Sam's grinning too, the big, goofy, trying-to-hide-itself smile that breaks out sometimes and transforms his face from twenty-two to five.

"Food?" she asks, and the boys follow her slowly back into the kitchen, where she pulls out cups and napkins, starts arranging muffins and bagels on a plate.

"Sam, get the drinks? We've got milk and water, and I think there's some juice left. And there might be part of a smoothie."

"Sit down," Sam orders his brother, and Dean rolls his eyes, but comes forward and lowers himself down carefully into a chair, one hand on the table for balance. Jess tries not to stare.

"Let's eat!" she says.

Jess looks just like her picture, all curly blonde hair and big lips and long legs. Dean wasn't just flattering when he said she was out of Sam's league—physically, anyway. Mentally might be a different story. She's sweet, that's clear, but she doesn't seem as smart as his brother. Then again, almost no one is.

Their apartment is strange to him; it's difficult to imagine his little brother living there, and he looks for signs of the Sam he knows until he realizes that the Sam he knows has no place here, in this little haven of domestic bliss. The bookshelf in the living room is the only nod to his idea of Sammy, who's always loved books. But otherwise, it's like a perfect stranger inhabits this space.

You wanted normal, you got normal, he thinks, examining a photograph on the wall. You're so freakin' normal you barely exist.

Jess is clearly nervous, and curious, and seems to be studying him in much the same way he's studying her – both of them looking for clues to the mystery that is Sam.

I've known him longer, Dean thinks pettily. I win.

His room is a surprise, so neat and lovely and comfortable that it takes all of his willpower not to throw himself onto the perfectly made-up bed and sleep for a year. There are even fresh flowers, and he looks at Jess and her hopeful, earnest face, and realizes that Sam is in good hands. Ditzy, maybe, but good.

The thought depresses him at the same time it comforts.

Through breakfast Jess tries to ask him questions that he doesn't know how to answer, questions that Sam deflects so smoothly and effortlessly that Dean is impressed despite himself. Sam has obviously mastered the art of evasion.

He's not sure how to treat his brother here, in Sam's own home, and it's suddenly as if the past few days had never happened and he's right back to the shock of seeing Sam again after two long years of absence.

He's tired, too, and his leg hurts, and Jess keeps shooting him these worried little piercing glances every time he moves, and talking just seems like a huge effort, so he's glad when Sam and Jess get into an argument over some professor who assigned some paper about something Dean can't even begin to understand. He stays quiet, concentrates on eating two bagels and a muffin and trying to figure out when would be a polite time to excuse himself to have a cigarette.

He sees his chance when Sam begins to clear the table and Dean starts up to help.

"No, no!" Jess cries. "Let us! You're a guest—at least for today. Tomorrow you can help."

"Fair enough," Dean says, but doesn't sit back down. "In that case, I guess I'm going to, uh—" He gestures towards the door, feeling uncomfortable under Jess's wide-eyed, innocent gaze.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighs. "Go ahead."

"What's he doing?" he hears Jess stage-whisper as he closes the door behind him, and he shakes his head. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, apparently.

He's gratified to see that there's a chair out there, a torn-up green plastic lawn chair that he plops himself down into before shaking his lighter and cigarettes free from his jacket.

He takes a long drag and watches the people down in the street, students like Sam, carrying a huge keg between two of them, huffing and puffing. He wonders if Sam is friends with them, if he'll be invited to the party, if he'll want to go.

Dean has been to a couple college parties in his day, mostly when he was in high school, but a few times also when he was dating Cassie. He was always struck by how young the kids seemed, how sweet and simple their lives appeared—drink, study, drink, study… He wonders, if he met Sam at a party without knowing him, if he'd think of Sam that way, too.

The door creaks open and Sam emerges, comes to stand in front of Dean.

"So," he says.

"She's great, man," Dean says. "Very sweet. Bet she's a pistol in—"

"Dude."

Dean grins, flicks ash onto the wooden planks of the landing.

"We'll get an ashtray out here," Sam says. "Maybe put up some posters. Since you'll probably be spending more time here than in the house."

"Shut up, man."

"Do you like the bedroom? It's kind of small, but—"

"It's great," Dean says. "I dig the quilt." He stubs out his cigarette, wags the butt at Sam. "What do I do with this?"

"Chuck it over the railing."

Dean obeys, watches it fall onto the lawn below. Struggles to his feet.

"You ready for a nap?" Sam asks, opening the door.

"Oh, fuck, yes," Dean says.

Jess insists on giving him an extra pillow when Sam tells her Dean can't straighten out his knee, and he doesn't protest, accepts it with a thank-you.

He hates the way she watches him, like he's going to fall over at any minute. But he appreciates that she gives him a glass of water unasked, sets it on the table next to his bed.

"I'll wake you guys up for dinner, if you sleep that long," she says.

"Thanks," Dean says.

"If you wake up first, come wake me," Sam says, and Dean nods, eyelids drooping, wanting them out of his room so he can take a painkiller and pass out. He's exhausted.

The bed is deep and comfortable, and the pillows cradle his head and leg perfectly. A thin stream of sun filters through the gap at the bottom of the blinds, and he can smell the flowers Jess has put on his bureau.

Okay, he thinks, as he drifts off to sleep. Okay.


	14. Chapter 14

Nadie encendía las lámparas

14/?

Dean wakes up confused, which he's used to, and comfortable, which is definitely something new. A ray of warm light is striped across his face, and the ache in his leg is for once secondary to coherent thought: he knows where he is.

He hauls himself upright, peeks through the blinds, tries to figure out what time it is from the position of the sun. He's always been shitty at that, but he thinks it's probably sometime between three and five.

There's water left in the glass by his bed, and he drinks it down, rubs a hand across his mouth. He wonders if Sam's awake, wonders what to do if he isn't. He contemplates just hiding out in his room, but the pressure on his bladder makes that plan impossible, and he grudgingly works his legs out of the bed and onto the floor. His cane, which he'd propped up against the bedside table, has fallen over just out of his reach, and he has to execute a bizarre series of contortions in order to grab at it and pull himself upright.

His room is in a tiny hallway right across from the bathroom, and he tries to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to disturb or attract attention to himself. He stares for a moment at Sam's toothbrush propped next to a sparkly blue one, rubs the thick pink towels between his thumb and forefinger. He's careful to put the seat down when he's finished.

He moves into the living room and finds Jess lying on the couch, reading a book. When she sees him she sits upright and folds the book across her lap.

"Hey," she says. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," he says, easing himself into the armchair, covering his wince with a cough. "Like a log. What time is it?"

She checks her watch. "Four."

"Sam up?"

"Not yet."

Awkward. Dean shifts in his seat, tries to think of something to say. He wants a cigarette, badly, but feels it would be rude to walk out on Jess like this. Besides, he's curious about her, wants to see what she's like when Sam's not around. She doesn't seem Sam's type, not that Sam really dated much in high school, but his girlfriends had always been smart and weird and prone to bossing him around. Sometimes annoying, but always interesting. He wonders if Sam realizes how incredibly normal Jess is; wonders if that's why they're together in the first place.

"So," he says. "How long have you two lovebirds lived in this apartment?"

"About a year and half. It's not amazing, but it's a great location and dirt cheap."

Something occurs to him, and he asks, "Does Sam's scholarship cover housing, too?"

Jess gives him a strange look, like that's something he should know, and he figures it probably is. "No," she says. "Just tuition. While he was living in the dorms it was free, and he's still on the meal plan for free, but once he moved off-campus it was up to him."

Dean nods, trying to figure it out. "So, what'd he do – get a job?"

"Uh, yeah."

"No shit? Where's he work?"

"Coffee shop a few blocks over. They're doing renovations right now, so he's been out of work for two weeks, but he's starting again this Thursday."

Dean mulls that over, tries to picture Sam behind a counter, grins a little at the image.

"I'm a waitress at a Mexican place a few nights a week," Jess says, and now Dean's really surprised, because he figured her for one of those girls that didn't work. Figured her parents would have her covered. "You should come in tomorrow, I can hook you up with all sorts of free stuff. Guacamole, margaritas, enchiladas… you name it."

"Sounds great."

"Sam tells me you're good with cars?"

"I can hold my own."

"There's a service station hiring, I don't know if he told you. It's really close by, and everyone who works there's super nice."

"He mentioned something like that," Dean says evasively. "I'll check it out."

Jess smiles, pulls her knees up to her chest. "What was Sam like when he was little?"

Dean barks a laugh, surprised. "Pretty much the same as he is now. Stubborn as hell, kind of a crybaby, prone to dramatic temper tantrums. Smarter than any damn grown-up I've ever met."

"So he was always a smartie."

"A smartie. Yeah. Used to do my homework, when I was in a high school and he was still in elementary. Got good grades on it, too."

Jess wiggles her toes, looks pleased. Proud.

Dean rubs a hand over his eyes, digs a fist into the sockets. "Hey," he says, "I really need a smoke. You mind if we postpone this conversation?"

"I'll come with you," Jess says, bouncing easily to her feet. Dean tries not to be jealous. "I need the fresh air anyway."

"All right, then." Dean pulls himself carefully upright, wishing Jess would look somewhere else. As if reading his thoughts, she pries her gaze away and examines the flap of her book intently.

"What are you reading?" Dean asks as she follows him into the kitchen, where he retrieves his jacket from the back of a chair.

"This thing for school. _Health and Wealth: Studies in history and policy._"

"Sounds like a party."

She giggles, shrugs. "It's boring," she says, tugging the door open, beckoning for him to go first, "but it's got some good information."

Dean hesitates in front of the one chair, feeling like he should be a gentleman and let the lady sit down. He goes for the wall instead, props his cane up so his hands are free to light a cigarette. Takes a drag, tries to aim the smoke away from Jess.

She leans over the railing, cranes her neck to watch some people coming out of the house next door.

"Hey, Jess!" one of them calls up, a burly guy in a baseball cap. "Is that Sam up there? Sam, is that you?"

"It's his brother!" Jess hollers back. "Sam's sleeping!"

The guy hustles over so he's standing directly under the porch, tilts his head back and shadows his eyes with his hand. "Hey, Sam's brother!" he shouts, unnecessarily loud. "We're having a barbecue tonight, you guys should come!"

Oh, fuck.

"Oh, awesome!" Jess says. "What time?"

"'Round seven. Yo, Sam's brother! What's your name again?"

Dean clears his throat. "Dean."

"I'm Colin, dude! It's great to meet you!"

"Likewise," Dean says, leaning forward a little, giving a small wave, a tight smile. Jesus, the last thing he wants to do is hang around with a bunch of Sam's college drinking buddies. Just thinking about it puts him on edge.

"So I'll see you around seven?" Colin asks.

"I'll talk to Sam," Jess says. "He drove all night. He might not be up for socializing."

"Hey, Dean!" Colin bellows. "You as much of a wimp as your little brother?"

Dean grins. "I doubt there's anyone in the world who can claim that."

Colin tosses his head back, laughs, and jogs off.

"He's great," Jess says, turning towards Dean. "Kind of intense, but a really good friend."

Dean nods, takes a drag. Eyes the chair. It seems a waste to just leave it empty like that, so he sits down.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Jess asks. "Your leg?"

"Not too bad," Dean says. "It's really more of a hassle than anything else."

"I broke my leg once," Jess says. "Fell out of a tree when I was thirteen. I had a cast from here to here." She indicates ankle to hip. "I got so frustrated by the end, not being able to move around. That was the worst part, a lot worse than the pain."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Pretty much sucks."

Jess is quiet for a moment, and Dean finishes his cigarette, prays the conversation is over.

He reaches out for his cane, gets to his feet. Jess is watching him again, staring, and this time he stares right back.

"There's this great antique store downtown," she blurts out. "It sells all this crazy stuff, like old rugs and taxidermied heads and things like that."

"Huh," Dean says. "Cool." This girl is definitely missing some essential screw.

"I mean, do you like that?" She points.

Dean follows her finger. "What, this?" He hoists his cane.

"Yeah."

"Do I like it?"

"It's just, it's so old-person. And you're, you know, a young person. And this store has a whole aisle of old canes, some of them are really cool, black lacquer, birds carved on the top, things like that."

Dean's lips quirk up despite himself. "Are you calling my cane fat?"

"No!"

"You're just saying I look like an old man."

"No, what I'm SAYING is that you should consider the possibilities. If it's going to be … a permanent accessory."

Dean grins, shakes his head, about to make a joke about getting a different cane for each outfit, when suddenly he thinks of something.

"Hey," he says. "There any sword canes at this store?"

Dean can't help but feel a little ridiculous, standing just behind Jess as she says seriously to the man at the front desk, "We're looking for a sword cane," but it's all worth it when the guy busts out the sweetest cane Dean's ever seen.

It doesn't look too fancy, just a sturdy dark brown wood, almost black, with a brass head that would make a pretty effective bludgeon in its own right. At first glance you'd never guess that there was a wickedly sharp, carbon steel blade concealed within the shaft, but there is, and it's awesome, and Dean is sold even before he tries it out.

Jess is even more excited that he is, keeps pulling the blade out and putting it back in, till Dean's worried she's going to break it before he gets to kill anything with it.

Her phone rings as they're at the cash register, and she ducks to the side to answer.

"You awake?" he hears her say, and he knows it's Sam.

"I didn't tell him where we were," she says as he climbs into the car and starts the engine. "It'll be a surprise."

"It'll blow his mind."

"He'll think it's dangerous," Jess giggles, and Dean grins, partially because Jess is in such a good mood, and partially because she has absolutely no idea what kinds of dangerous things Sam's handled without batting an eye.

"You're going to have to put rubber on the tip of this," Jess says, examining the new cane. "Or else you'll slip on ice and linoleum and stuff."

Dean is lighting a cigarette, but he pauses to ask around the filter, "Is that even possible?"

"Sure. I bet I can get a rubber tip from the school health office, actually. They've got canes like you wouldn't believe. Though come to think of it, I've never seen anyone use them."

Dean blows a stream of smoke out the window and switches gears, glances at Jess. She's sitting there, both canes propped up between her knees, smiling to herself a little. Hair blowing in the wind, getting stuck on her too-pink lipgloss. A good girl.

"Sam really likes school, huh?" he asks, knowing it sounds like a stupid question, wanting to ask something else but not sure what.

Jess laughs a little. "He sure does. The rest of us will be bitching about some essay, or too much homework, and Sam, he complains sometimes, sure, but you can tell it's just for show. He loves it. Loves writing papers, loves going to class, loves readings and lectures..."

"What a freak."

"Is…" Jess hesitates. "Is your dad like that? Like Sam?"

Dean is quiet for a moment, because no, John's nothing like Sam, not in the way that Jess means. But. "Yeah. They're a lot alike. Not with the school thing, but the way they… focus."

"What about your mom?"

Dean takes a drag, coughs, a deep wet sound that makes Jess wince. "Don't know," Dean says shortly, coughs again, clears his throat. Really wants to change the subject.

"You don't—"

"So he gets good grades?" Dean asks.

"Are you kidding? He's top of his class. And my god, his LSAT scores are out of this world. He's got grad schools practically begging him to come."

Dean has no idea what an el-sat is, but it sounds good. "Hey," he says, embarrassed but determined. "What's he study?"

Jess turns to him, her open face all disbelief. "Law. He's pre-law."

Sam, a lawyer? Sam, the king of arguments, master of getting his own way.

"I'll be damned," He's going to make a great lawyer."

"No shit," Jess says, and Dean laughs, knowing for once that they're thinking of the same Sam.

When they get back to the apartment, Jess hesitates at the foot of the stairs. Going down, Dean had just gripped both sides of the railing and swung himself down each step, like she used to do as a kid; but going up is a different story. She sees Dean pause, too, steel himself for the climb.

"You okay?" she asks tentatively when he pauses halfway up, but he just gives her a strained grin and starts moving again.

Sam's at the kitchen table eating a muffin, and he grins at them as they come in, transparently happy that they're spending time together.

"Where were you?" he asks, putting a hand on her waist and looking at Dean.

"Jess thought my cane needed a makeover," Dean says, "so we went to—"

"Jeremiah's Antiques," Jess supplies.

"Yeah, the antique store, and I got this." He waves his new cane.

"Oh," Sam says, "cool!"

"Hang on," Dean says. "Hold your judgment." He grips the shaft of the cane, flicks his wrist, and pulls out the sword.

Jess looks at Sam expectantly, but his face has frozen into an expression she's never seen before.

"Okay," Dean says. "Now tell me how cool you think it is."

Sam takes a step forward, stops. "You don't need that," he says.

"Uh, crippled here? Yeah, I do."

"No, I mean." Sam takes a deep breath. "You don't need a sword. Why would you need a sword?"

"Sammy," Dean says in a cautious, placating tone, and Jess feels like she's missing something.

"It's just for fun," she intervenes. "It's not dangerous. It doesn't come out unless you pull it just right."

"Dean," Sam says, breathing hard. "You don't need it."

"Dude," Dean says, clicking the cane back together so he can move towards his brother. "Hey. I'm not going to use it, okay? I'm not going to use it."

Sam shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face, glances at Jess like he'd forgotten she was there.

"It's okay," she says, not really sure what she's talking about, not sure why Sam needs to be told that. "It's okay."

"Hey," Dean says. "I met your friend Colin."

Sam is relaxing, shoulders releasing their tension. "Colin, huh?"

"He invited us to a barbecue tonight," Jess says. "You wanna go?"

"Oh. Yeah, I heard some people were headed over there," Sam says. "Becca called." He looks at Dean. "You up for that, man?"

Jess sees several emotions play themselves out on Dean's face, none of them happy, but he says, "Sure. Why not? You live next door, anyway. I can just come crash if I want to leave early. Right?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Of course. This is your home now, Dean."

He says that last with a vehemence and anger that startles Jess, and once again she feels out of her depth, like there's some essential piece that she's just not fitting together.

"Yeah," Dean says. He sighs.

"I have to get changed," Jess says, looking down at herself, decides she'll wear her new red sweater-dress, thinks Sam will like it. Hopes Dean will like it, too. Man. He's going to get swarmed by their friends tonight. Their female friends.

"Me too," Sam says. "I've been wearing the same thing for the past two days."

Dean nods. "Okay. I'm just going to head outside for a second."

"Okay."

Jess watches the brothers look at each other, and she realizes that whatever they were fighting about has been set aside, for the moment. Dean smiles a little, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Okay!" Jess says, feeling left out. Dean grins at her, and goes back out onto the porch.

"What was that about?" Jess asks Sam, but he just laughs.

"Nothing," he says. "I'm a freak."

"That's what your brother tells me."

"Have you guys been talking about me?"

"Obviously," Jess says, and tilts her head up towards him.

Outside, Dean lets out a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding. Of all the reactions Sam might have had, he hadn't expected that one.

He has to talk to Sam. Has to let him know he can't stay. Isn't going to stay.

He lights a cigarette, surveys the group of people headed next door to Colin's. God. He doesn't want to go. But he will. It'll make Sam happy, calm him down.

Sam. Happy. Here.

Dean takes a long drag, squints his eyes against the sting of smoke. He has to get out of here, has to find their Dad. And god, goddammit, he needs Sam to come with him. He can't do it alone. He knows that. If a set of stairs can beat him, he doesn't want to know what a werewolf could do, or a shtriga, or, fuck, a demon. He needs Sam there with him.

But for the first time, he realizes it's not what Sam needs. Not what Sam wants.

And now he doesn't really know what the fuck to do.


	15. Chapter 15

Nadie encendía las lámparas

A/N: Thanks so much to all you guys who have been reading and reviewing! I really, really, really appreciate it. Makes my day 

15/?

Colin's backyard is small and busted, all the grass trampled down and worn away into dirt long ago. There are a lot of people there, more than Sam was expecting, and a huge, low table full of food at one end.

Jess disappears into the house almost immediately to look for Colin's girlfriend Gretchen, who apparently has dyed her hair some hideous color over the weekend and is hiding out in the bathroom.

Sam glances at his brother. Dean's jaw is clenched, eyes darting around suspiciously, raking over the milling people. Sam reaches out and snags a couple beers from an open cooler, pops the tops off, presses a bottle into Dean's free hand.

"Chill," he says with a grin, gesturing to the kids around them. "They don't bite."

"Yeah, well, I might." Dean takes a grateful swig, hoists it at his brother in a mock-toast. "Thanks."

A couple people shout hello as they make their way over to the food, but Sam figures that Dean's going to be here for a while and it isn't entirely necessary to introduce him to everyone all at once.

"Sam! Dean!" Colin greets them from behind the grill, a bright red apron tied around his waist, spatula in hand. "Check it, we got burgers, hot dogs, chicken, steak… You a vegetarian, Dean?"

"Hell no."

"Well, we got some veggie burgers just in case you change your mind."

"Here," Sam says, looking at Dean's beer in one hand and his cane in the other, "tell me what you want and I'll make you a plate."

"Oh. Thanks. Just give me whatever you're having."

"I'm having chicken, dude."

"Huh. Gimme a burger, then."

Sam leans down to start filling the plates, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean sets his beer down for a moment to light a cigarette. Sees him frown, rifle through the pack, lips moving silently.

"Are you counting your cigarettes?" Sam asks scornfully, heaping both plates with mounds of potato salad.

"Is there a gas station around here? I'm running low."

"No. But there's a convenience store and a supermarket. Gas stations aren't the only place to buy things, Dean."

"I know that, smartass," Dean snaps, and takes a swallow of beer. "Hey!" he says. "Can you throw some of those egg-things on there, too?"

"Deviled eggs."

"Whatever."

Sam puts a couple deviled eggs on his brother's plate and turns to scan the yard for a place to sit.

"Sam!" someone calls, and he looks over to see a bunch of his friends squeezed onto a picnic table covered in food and bottles. "Over here!"

"Is there room?" he asks doubtfully, coming over, Dean in tow.

"We can make room," his friend Jen says. "Scootch over, guys."

Everyone shuffles down obligingly, and Sam puts the plates down in the tiny spaces cleared for him.

"Guys," he says, "this is my big brother, Dean. Dean, this is Jen, Peter, Greg, Suma, Linda, and Rohan."

"Hey!" they chorus enthusiastically, and Sam flinches a little, imagining what his brother must be thinking.

Dean gives them his patented butter-melting grin as he eases himself down, putting the hand holding his cigarette briefly on Sam's shoulder for balance.

"Nice to meet you all," he says, propping his cane up on the table. Sam can practically taste his friends' curiosity, and he hopes to god that Dean remembers the construction story Sam invented, in case anyone asks him what happened.

He sees Dean wince, trying to stretch out his leg under the crowded table, and Sam shifts to give his brother some more room on his bad right side.

"What'd you do?" his friend Jen asks, just as Sam had predicted, and he turns towards Dean, nervous.

"Uh—" Dean says, clearly trying to remember. "Construction accident?" Sam gives him a tiny nod. "Yeah, construction. Usually I'm a firefighter, though. I was taking a little break, cause, you know. It gets pretty intense sometimes."

"I bet," Jen says, leaning forward, hand on cheek. Sam blinks. She's flirting. Jesus. For some reason he had thought that Dean's usual effect on women wouldn't apply here, in what he considers the "real world," but it clearly does, as Suma also leans forward.

Dean, master bullshitter, starts to weave some story about being caught in a burning elementary school, and Sam relaxes, eats his food, chats with his friends. Doesn't stop watching his brother in his peripheral vision.

He's seen Dean in pretty much every unlikely situation a person could dream up: hung upside-down by invisible hands; in a hospital bed covered in tubes; screaming Latin exorcisms in a high school gymnasium — but somehow this is the strangest. At a picnic table, picking sesame seeds out of his teeth, having a conversation that has absolutely nothing to do with killing anything.

Dean seems fine, looks as if he might even be enjoying himself, though Sam notices that as soon as one cigarette is finished he immediately lights another; the only indication that he's not entirely comfortable.

But his friends genuinely seem to like Dean, and most importantly, Jess likes him.

"At first I thought he was a jackass," she'd admitted in the few minutes they'd found alone. "But he's not. He's sweet."

"Sweet," Sam had repeated disbelievingly. Not exactly the word he'd have chosen to describe his grumpy, wiseass, chain-smoking older brother.

"Yeah. He's got a good heart. And you guys really get along, don't you?"

"I guess we do," Sam had said, though he'd never really thought about it like that before. Sometimes he thought Dean was the only reason he really got anywhere at all, nevermind ALONG. "I guess we were pretty close, growing up."

"You're not too much alike," she'd remarked. "But I see him in you."

"What about me? You see me in him?"

She'd cocked her head, considering, then shook it. "No."

He looks at Dean now, trying to figure out what she meant by that. Sometimes Jess speaks so enigmatically; it's both infuriating and charming.

"Hey," Sam says, touching Dean's forearm, pulling him out of conversation with a rapt Suma. "You want another beer?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Hang on. I'll get them."

"You sure?" Sam asked, as Suma looks disappointed, but Dean's already reaching for his cane, hauling himself to his feet. Sam watches, somewhat confused, as he limps away.

"Looks like he's in a lot of pain," Suma says, and Sam turns back to the table.

"Huh?"

"His leg."

"Oh. I guess he is."

"Cause I've been really into traditional medicine lately. You know, like acupuncture, herbs and stuff. Massage. You should tell him I'll work on him for free."

"I will," Sam promises, and glances backwards one more time. The beer cooler's obscured by a group of people, and Sam sighs, starts back in on his pasta salad.

Dean's got a Ziploc of vicodin in his pocket, and as soon as he's out of sight of Sam's table he shakes a couple out onto his palm and swallows them quickly. The cramped picnic table was wreaking havoc on his leg, but he really doesn't feel comfortable taking his pills in front of Sam's friends; pain has always seemed like kind of a private thing to him.

Though this whole shindig isn't as bad as he might have expected, all of a sudden he just wants to get out of there. Dean's a social person, likes people, but only to a certain extent. He never really had friends growing up, which, yeah, sounds pretty lame when you put it like that, but it was definitely a personal decision. One of the reasons he never bothered, always rebuffed any efforts, was because he knew he wouldn't be around for long, and conversation always just felt like small talk; boring and inconsequential.

Sam on the other hand, even as a kid, always had friends. Dean remembers talking on the phone to mothers, making playdates for Sam and their bratty children.

His father always understood this, was a lot like Dean in that way. Didn't really need anyone; no one besides his family, anyway.

Dean suddenly misses John with a sharp, startling pain that slices through his chest and squeezes his lungs. Wherever the hell he is, Dean hopes he's taking care of himself.

He slowly pulls two beers out of the cooler, juggling the bottles and his cane for a moment before he nestles one in the crook of his arm.

"Hey," a familiar voice says, and Jess pops up next to him, holding a plate of food. "Want me to take one of those for you?"

"Thanks," Dean says, surprised to find that he's genuinely glad to see her, and she grins, takes the beer out of his hand. He doesn't really know when it happened, but sometime during the course of the day, he started really liking her. She has a deep, good energy about her that reminds him of Sam in one of his best moods; a charisma of happiness that you can't help but get sucked into.

"Where are you guys sitting?" she asks, looking around, and Dean gestures, follows her as she heads back to the table.

Everyone pushes together again, and Dean finds himself squished between Jess and Sam, bad hip pressed up painfully against his brother's bony side. He grits his teeth, sucks in a breath as Jess shifts position and he's forced to do the same.

"Thanks," Sam says, reaching behind Dean and taking the beer from Jess' hand, touching her briefly on the cheek.

Dean takes a swig of his drink, feels in his pocket for his cigarettes.

"Your brother was telling me you want to quit smoking," Suma says to him, watching as he flips open his zippo.

"That right?" Dean looks over at Sam, who makes a sheepish gesture.

"Cause I've been really into traditional medicine lately. Acupuncture, and herbs. Also massage. I could probably help you out."

"That's okay," Dean says, smirks at his brother. "I think I'm going to do the thing with the gum."

"Really?" Jess squeals. "That's great! We'll all help you!"

Oh, christ.

"Awesome," he drawls, taking a long drag. He turns his head and blows the smoke directly in Sam's face. Sam just bats it away and grins.

Dean drinks a little too much, which he kind of knew was going to happen, considering his newly shitty tolerance and the painkillers and the fact that he's at this lame college barbecue with a bunch of Sam's strangers. He doesn't think anyone else notices, since they've all been drinking as well, but he's almost to the point of slurring his words and has some trouble keeping his balance when he stands up.

Jess is on her way also, giggly and flushed and leaning all over Sam all of the time, which is partially kind of cute and partially kind of too college-girl for Dean to handle.

He has some interesting conversations with some of Sam's friends, who aren't as completely dorky as he might have imagined, even if they do study mindboggling things like "comparative literature of the 1800s" and "east-Asian civilizations and their impact on global economy."

He ends up talking to this one guy for a long time; Sam's freshman year roommate, Peter, who's wasted and a computer science major and knows a lot about robots, which even Dean has to admit is pretty freakin' badass.

He manages to grill Peter without seeming too weird about it, and finds out that Sam was a "kickass roommate," so clean it was "almost military," but a little "weird about the door."

"He wouldn't let me lock it," Peter says. "He always had to do it. And dude, your brother's got a saline fixation, if you ask me. I used to find salt everywhere. And the doodles! Man, the shit he drew on our walls. We had to pay a fine at the end of the year."

Dean had grinned at that. You can take the hunter out of the hunt, he thought triumphantly, but you can't take the hunt out of the hunter.

They stay for about three hours, which by the end feels a little bit like torture, since Dean runs out of cigarettes at around the two-hour mark and cuts himself off from the beer once he realizes that walking has become even harder than it already is to begin with.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and he looks up. Sam's looming over him, drunk but not too drunk. Dean hasn't really left the picnic table all night, but Sam's been mingling, sometimes bringing people over to introduce. He and Jess seem to have been taking turns staying with him, since he realizes belatedly that he's scarcely been alone except during his conversation with Peter.

"We should go," Jess says, coming up behind Sam. "You wanna get a good night's sleep for your interview tomorrow."

"It's not till five," Sam says, "but you're right." He squeezes Dean's shoulder. "You ready to go home?" he asks.

"Oh lord yes," Dean says, and hoists himself to his feet with just a little more trouble than usual. Sam puts out a wide hand to steady him, and Dean tries his best not to jerk away but jesus, he really wishes Sam wouldn't do that in front of all his friends, in front of Jess.

They say their goodbyes and make their way back next door, Jess chattering about a research project one of their friends is proposing to the French government, and Dean just concentrates on putting one foot in front of another.

When they get to the stairs he has to bite back a groan of frustration and paste a smile on his face to appease Jess' worried eyes and Sam's sharply furrowed brow.

"You guys go on up," he says. "This might take… a minute."

"Dude," Sam says, "let me—"

"No," Dean snaps. "Go upstairs."

After a night getting stared at by strangers he's feeling pretty on edge, and he's really not in the mood to get stared at by his little brother and his brother's girlfriend.

Sam looks like he's going to argue, but Jess reaches out and tugs on his sleeve, and he shrugs, shakes his head, turns to go up. Dean shoots Jess a grateful smile, which she returns twice as brightly.

Without eyes on him he feels like he can take his time, stop every so often, and he makes it up the stairs less out of breath than usual.

Sam's at the kitchen table waiting for him, holding a glass of water. Somewhere in the back of the apartment, he hears a door slam and a shower turn on.

"Here," Sam says, thrusting the water at Dean before he even gets in the door. "Drink."

"Thanks," Dean says, coming forward and tugging out a chair. He takes the water, sips it. "Where's Jess?"

"The shower."

Dean nods. Fuck. He's got to talk to Sam. This is a good time. Right? Jess isn't there, Sam's relaxed with beer and food. It's not fair to lie to him, to lead him on. He's just gotta come right out and say it. He's been thinking all night and he knows what to say. Sam. I'm not staying.

"Do you ever miss hunting?" is what comes out instead.

Sam looks startled, starts to shake his head, then stops. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I don't miss moving around all the time. I don't miss eating skittles for breakfast. I don't miss hanging out in graveyards, I don't miss watching people die, I don't miss watching you and Dad get beat up, and I sure as hell don't miss being beat to hell myself."

"Right. Sucks."

Sam nods, drinks Dean's water.

"So, I guess that's a no," Dean says.

"No..."

"No?"

"Sometimes… I miss. Things."

Dean waits, but Sam doesn't look like he's about to say anything else. "You miss fighting?" he asks, finally.

Sam nods, slow and thoughtful. "I guess so. I guess sometimes I do. And, you know. I missed. You. Missed you and Dad. Us. Together."

Dean is wholly unprepared for the lump that rises suddenly in his throat. He opens his mouth but finds his voice is blocked like he's swallowed something solid and heavy, and he coughs, chest rattling, takes a drink of water.

"But I'm glad I got out," Sam says at last, firmly. "Don't worry, man. You might miss it at first, but you'll see. It will fade."

"No," Dean says. "That's not. I. Sam. I can't – I can't do this, man. I can't stay here."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks. "Dean, we talked about this, we—"

"I can't," Dean says again. "Not while I know Dad's out there, not while I know the thing that killed mom is still out there. I appreciate it, you opening your home to me, I really, really do. And I get what you've got going on here. It's good. It's a good life, Sam. It's just not for me."

Sam is sitting back in his chair, staring disbelievingly, and Dean swallows. Jesus christ almighty, he needs a cigarette, and he doesn't have any; can't believe he started this conversation when he doesn't even have any goddamn motherfucking cigarettes.

"Dean," Sam says. "It just took you fifteen minutes to climb up a flight of stairs."

Dean flinches, because it's a low blow, but it's true. "I know."

"You can't drive the car for more than half and hour."

"I know."

"You eat more vicodin than food!"

"All right, that's an exaggeration, but I get your point."

Sam shakes his head, pure frustration, grips his hair like he's trying to understand but just can't physically wrap his head around it. "Do you want to die? Is that it?"

"Quit bein' so melodramatic. No one said anything about dying here."

"Yeah? Well, what the hell do you think is going to happen, Dean? You can't run, you can't kick, you can't — Jesus, you can't walk, man! You can't walk!"

"Sam," Dean says, closing his eyes, trying to keep his cool. "I'm not asking you for permission. I'm telling you what I'm going to do. God knows I don't want to leave with you pissed at me, but I will if I have to. But I can't—I don't want to go another two years without talking to you, Sam. It fucking sucked the first time, I'm not really in a hurry to repeat it. So can't you just — can't you just let me go? Like I let you go? Give me your fucking blessing or whatever?"

"No," Sam says. "This is different, Dean. This is different."

"How exactly is this different, huh?"

Sam stands to his feet with such force that Dean almost drops the water glass he didn't even realize he was gripping.

"You wanna know how it's different?" Sam asks, and grabs Dean's cane from where it's propped against the chair. "This. This is how it's different."

He turns on his heel and walks from the room, taking the cane with him.

"Sam," Dean calls after him, but he hears Sam open the bathroom and say something heated to Jess, who's still in the shower. Then he hears the bedroom door slam.

"Sam!" Dean shouts again.

Nothing.

Fucking great.

He's fucking stuck at the fucking kitchen table with no fucking cigarettes and no fucking way to get the fuck up and out of his crazy fucking psycho brother's house.

Goddamn fucking Sam.


	16. Chapter 16

Nadie encendía las lámparas

16/?

For a long moment Dean just sits at the kitchen table, humming "Master of Puppets" and trying not to freak the fuck out, hoping against hope that Sam will miraculously change his mind about being asshole-of-the-week and come back.

He doesn't.

Two years without talking to his brother, two years of missing him, had almost eradicated Sam's bad qualities from Dean's memories — but he remembers now.

His brother's a stubborn, self-centered, self-righteous asshole.

Just like their dad.

The worst part is, Sam's made his point pretty effectively. Dean is, for all intents and purposes, stranded. Sam really would make a great lawyer.

He opens his mouth, about to holler Sam's name again, but stops.

No. He can't let Sam win.

He places both hands flat on the table and starts to rise, moves one hand to the back of the chair, gets himself to his feet.

Okay. His room's not that far away. He can do this, no sweat.

Funny how vulnerable he feels without the cane, confused, like he can't remember how he used to walk before he fucked up his leg. Like all the lights have been turned off and he's groping around in the dark.

His hand still on the chair back for balance, he tries to take a tentative step forward but FUCKING CHRIST it hurts like his leg is breaking all over again. His knee starts to buckle and he has to grab at the kitchen table before he ends up on the floor.

New plan.

There's a wide expanse of space from the table to the door, nothing to hold onto, no support, and Dean wonders if maybe he shouldn't just scoot to his room on his ass.

Hello, humiliation, my old friend. Like you haven't been paying me enough visits lately.

Jesus, he needs a cigarette, feels a little jolt of helpless panic at the thought that he's going to have to wait till tomorrow to go out and buy a pack. He flexes his fists, takes a deep breath, grips the back of the chair and tries not to lose it completely.

The chair. Huh.

He spins it around experimentally, so it's straight out in front of him and he's gripping the back. In the hospital he'd seen people getting around with walkers, and he thinks maybe this could work like that.

He leans on the back of the chair, carefully pushes it forward, takes a miniscule step.

Yeah. Yeah, this is working!

Really slowly.

He can only move about an inch at a time, or else the chair tips backwards when he tries to put his weight on it. He works hard on not picturing how he looks right now, bent over the chair like it's his only hope for salvation, taking these tiny, shuffling steps. At this rate it'll take him an hour to get to his room.

He hears footsteps and straightens up, tries to look casual, like it's perfectly normal to be pushing a chair across the room and fuck you, Sam, what'd you expect me to do?

But it's not Sam, it's Jess, wearing a pair of ratty flannels, her hair in a towel. She's holding Dean's cane.

"Hey," she says. "I, um. I came to rescue you." She sweeps her eyes over him, taking in the situation. "Looks like you pretty much got it covered though, huh? So I'll just—" she pretends to turn and leave the room.

Dean grins, sticks his hand out. "Give it, woman."

She comes towards him, smiling, and hands it over.

"Thanks, Jess," he says, immediately feeling better once the cane in is in hand. "Thanks a lot."

"Yeah," she says, putting the chair back to the table. "I don't know what you did to make him so mad, but I told him I thought that was a pretty lowhanded way to punish you." She hesitates. "What DID you do?"

"It's complicated," Dean says, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

"That's what he said." Jess gets a glass out of the cupboard, runs the water till it's cold, takes a sip. "Want some?"

Dean shakes his head. "Thanks."

"Sit down," she says, and Dean obeys, not really sure why.

"You okay?" she asks, and Dean gives a curt nod, clears his throat.

"Sam pissed at you for bringing me this?" He thumps his cane once on the floor.

"No." She doesn't elaborate.

They sit in a silence for a moment, Dean methodically ripping a napkin into shreds, Jess toweling off her hair, putting it into a wet braid.

"You don't happen to have any cigarettes lying around, do you?" he asks finally, and Jess snorts, shakes her head.

"Figured I'd ask."

"Dean," she says, and her face is serious. "I don't really understand what's going on, and I don't really know you very well, and it's not really my place to say anything. All I know is that you don't want to stay; that's all Sam told me."

Dean doesn't say anything, shifts his weight a little off his bad hip.

"But." She bites her lip. "I just want you to know, you're welcome here. If that's what you're worried about. You don't have to — to come to parties, or hang out on campus, or whatever. You can just, you know. Do your own thing. But. I'd be really happy if you stayed. And I know it's pretty much the thing Sam wants most, like, in the whole world."

Jesus, this is ten times worse than being stuck in the kitchen. Trust Sammy to send a chick to do his dirty work.

Dean balls up his fists, takes a deep breath. Jess is looking at him nervously, so hopeful, and he can feel something burning behind his eyes, threatening to break free. What the hell is it about girls that makes you just want to cry all over them?

He shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"Sam never talked about you much," Jess continues, studiously watching Dean's hands decimate the napkin. "I don't know why. But the one thing he did tell me was how you always took care of him. When you were kids. He said once that you were more of a parent than your father was."

Dean squeezes the bridge of his nose, concentrates on keeping his breathing even.

"He's frustrated, I think. You know? Really frustrated. He doesn't get why… I mean, you took care of him for so long. And I don't think he understands why you won't let him take care of you for a change. Just for a little while."

My god, this girl is merciless.

"It's complicated," he says again, when he thinks he can speak without giving himself away.

"Yeah." Jess says, sighs. Stands. "Just think about it, okay?" She reaches down, gives him a small pat on the back, grips his shoulder for a moment. "Good night."

"Night," Dean mumbles, not turning around. He listens to her footsteps recede down the hall, hears her go into the bedroom.

He leans back in his chair, presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, blinks rapidly, tallies up all the ways to kill a werewolf, thinks about how to rebuild a carburetor.

It's too late, though.

Dean can't remember the last time he'd cried, honestly. Maybe it was the day Sam left for Stanford. Four years ago. He'd gotten wasted that night, drank most of a handle of whiskey and beat the shit out of a couple bikers, then sobbed for half an hour in the parking lot of a bar on the border of Arizona and New Mexico.

This isn't that kind of crying; it's nowhere near as intense, but it's still probably more tears than he's shed in the past four years put together, and he prays to god that Sam and Jess stay in their damn room where they belong.

He isn't even really certain what he's crying about; it feels like the culmination of everything, all at once. Getting stuck at that goddamn table felt uncomfortably like a metaphor for his whole fucking life, just sitting there knowing that he couldn't rely on his body or his brother or his father or the gun tucked into his jeans.

He knows Sam is right. He can't deny everything when the physical evidence is so clear. Fuck, he's so sick of being in pain all the fucking time. It's wearing him down, putting new lines on his face that he can track when he looks in the mirror. His leg aches fiercely, with no let-up; even sitting is uncomfortable. His whole body hurts ceaselessly, muscles always sore from overcompensating for his leg, back and shoulders one huge snarl. If he's on his feet for more than ten minutes his leg starts to buckle, getting up stairs is like pulling teeth, and he could walk on water easier than he can walk across the kitchen without his cane.

So goddamnit, he KNOWS he can't hunt, not alone. Understands it a hell of a lot better than Sam does.

But he also knows he can't stay here. This isn't his life. It would be like borrowing someone else's skin; uncomfortable, too tight, too loose, too tall, too short, nothing to do with him.

He's happy that Sam's happy. Really, he is. It's all he ever wanted for the kid. He just wishes — dammit, he wishes his whole goddamn family didn't make it so obvious that they're a hell of a lot happier without him. Because where the hell is he supposed to be happy, huh?

He has no fucking clue.

It's not here, that's for damn sure, not at this table, repeatedly wiping his eyes with his soaked shirtsleeve until his cheeks start to chafe and he just gives up, lets the tears fall, tries not to make any noise.

And eventually he's calm again, breathing back to normal, eyelids swelling under his fingertips.

He sighs, a long shuddering sound of release, or of defeat, and he tries to mop up his face again, urge coherent thought into his head.

Maybe he'll stay here for a few more days then go back to Bobby's, take him up on his offer: work on some cars, help him hunt now and then, keep his eyes open for signs of his father. Maybe that's the only choice that's really left to him, at least for now. A compromise. Sam can't complain too much; he'll stay in one place, won't put himself in too much danger, work on his physical therapy and hope to god things get better someday.

The thought is so depressing that he almost starts crying again, but doesn't, because he figures he's cried enough to get him through the next four years.

He gets to his feet, heads for the sink, braces himself on the kitchen counter to wash his face. Thinks he'd cut off one of his pinkies in exchange for a cigarette.

He makes his way to the small bedroom Jess made up for him, and it's like once he opened the floodgates there's no way he can get them closed again, because he feels tears welling up once more, looking at the quilt and the already-wilting flowers.

He sits on the edge of his bed to tug off his shirt and his jeans and get his leg out of the brace, and he stares for a while at the thick scars weaving themselves up his shin and knee. The leg was in an immobilizer for a while, and there are still the strange dot scars in a neat line that mark where the screws went in. He knows there's still some metal in there, was warned about metal detectors on airplanes and even has a written statement just in case, but it doesn't feel any different than the bone.

He takes his pills, eases himself under the sheets, arranges his leg on the pillow. Turns out the light.

Not five minutes have gone by when he hears a soft knock on his door, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

Dean considers pretending to be asleep, knows his puffy eyes will give him away in an instant, but Sam cracks open the door and steps inside, doesn't turn on the light.

"I just heard you moving around," Sam says, a dark outline, nothing more. "I know you're not asleep."

"Dude," Dean says, doesn't sit up. "Fuck you. Seriously."

"Yeah," Sam sighs, heavy and long. The light from the hallway is dim and Dean can't see his brother's face. "Dean, I'm sorry. That was a shitty thing for me to do."

"What exactly were you thinking?" Dean asks. "Do you think I'm stupid? You think I'm confused? I don't need you taking away my cane to figure out that I can't walk worth jack shit."

His anger is returning, and he realizes, in a flash of clarity, that anger feels a lot fucking better than despair.

He learns something new about his father every day.

Sam doesn't say anything, just draws in a trembling breath, makes a sound Dean recognizes from years ago; he's trying not to cry.

Jesus, is there estrogen in the water or something?

"Chill, Sammy," Dean says wearily, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it came. "It's okay. You're an asshole, but I forgive you."

"I just don't know what to do," Sam says. "What can I do?"

"Go to sleep," Dean says. "Okay? Just go to sleep. We'll talk more in the morning."

"I'm sorry," Sam says again.

"Dude, I told you it was okay. I get it. I do. I get it."

Sam makes a sniffling noise. "You're a lot better than I am, Dean."

"Shut the fuck up and go to sleep," Dean groans. "Seriously. Get out of here."

He sees Sam nod in the darkness, turn to leave.

"Sam," Dean says, and his brother stops. "It'll be all right, okay? It'll be all right."

"I fucking hope so," Sam says, and closes the door.

Dean is still for a moment, then shifts around on the mattress, adjusts his leg. He feels a little better, honestly, the boulder in his stomach and chest whittled down to a hard pebble.

He's exhausted, emotionally and physically, and he settles back into the pillow, closes his eyes, waits for unconsciousness.

Four hundred and seventeen sheep later, he's still awake.

It's partially because his leg is killing him, the pain settled in his hip, making it hard to get comfortable no matter what position he's in. It's partially because the clock in the room is driving him nuts with its loud tick-tock rhythm, and it's partially because of the streetlamp that streams in through the blinds and straight onto his face. But mostly it's because he can't stop thinking about cigarettes and how fucking badly he wants one.

Finally, he leans over and turns on the light, gets himself up on his elbow and reaches for his vicodin, thinking he'll take a couple more to help knock him out. He gets the cap off and shakes out two pills, puts them in his mouth. Is just about to swallow.

That's when he hears the scream.


	17. Chapter 17

Nadie encendía las lámparas

17/?

No matter how many times he thinks back on it, Dean will never figure out exactly how he managed to get Sam and himself out of the house and onto the street.

He remembers he grabbed his cane when he first jolted out of bed, but by the time he and Sam were sitting on the curb watching the apartment burn, listening to the keening wail of sirens in the distance, it was long gone. They find it later, unharmed, in what used to be the living room.

Dean had heard his father's description of his mother's death a hundred times, but nothing he'd merely imagined could have prepared him for a sight like the one he found in the bedroom: Jess, pinned to the ceiling, stomach slashed and oozing blood, flesh already blackening from the fire, blue eyes wide and terrified even in the rictus of death.

That's the only clear image Dean maintains. Jess. Burning.

The rest is a blur, Sam shouting, clinging to the bed, blindly shoving and clawing at his brother as Dean tries to drag him from the apartment, screaming incomprehensible words that Dean only identifies much later.

Even after Dean has somehow dragged him down the stairs, pushed him onto the grass, held him down kicking and punching; even after neighbors start coming out, after someone calls the cops and firetrucks and an ambulance, Sam still keeps saying it, over an over, a mantra.

"No. No. No."

Someone puts blankets over them, checks them for injuries, hooks oxygen masks to their faces. Sam has calmed down, eerily so, going from a screaming wild animal one minute to a placid, hollow-eyed child the next. He lets the workers swarm over him, lifting his arms, shining flashlights in his enormous, blank pupils.

At some point one of the medics asks Dean to stand up and walk around and he finds that he can't; that's when he realizes his cane is gone. It takes five minutes of confusion before he manages to get across to the worried medics that it's an old injury.

Policeman start questioning them, and Dean remembers why he fucking hates cops.

"So you and your girlfriend were both in the bedroom," they keep saying to Sam. "But only you got out."

"My brother pulled me out."

"He pulled you out. With a bum leg."

"He used to be a firefighter," Sam says dully, and Dean's stomach turns over.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" they ask, and Dean doesn't know what to say.

"Yeah," someone says, steps forward under the streetlight. It's Sam's friend Colin. "Yeah, they're coming with me."

"Hey," says Colin's girlfriend. Her face is stained with tears, mascara pooled under her eyes. She goes over to Sam, crouches in front of him, reaches for his arm. "Sam. Come on, Sam. Come on."

"You done with them?" Colin demands of the cops, his friendliness dropped and replaced with steel. Dean realizes he's underestimated the guy.

"For now," an officer says, and steps forward to get Colin's address and phone number. "We'll be in touch," he adds.

Colin turns. "Sam," he says. "You need to get up, man, okay? You're going to stay with us tonight, all right?"

"Yeah," Sam says, lets himself be pulled up.

Colin glances at Dean, then, still sitting on the curb. "You too, man," he says, and Dean nods. Doesn't know how to explain that he can't stand up, much less walk the thirty feet to Colin's house.

Colin's girlfriend – Gretchen? – still has one hand on Sam's arm, leading him towards the house, but Sam stops, pulls away. Croaks out, "My brother." Goes back to where Dean's sitting, reaches down for him.

Dean stares for a moment before taking his Sam's outstretched hands, pulling himself painstakingly to his feet from his awkward position. He grips his brother's shoulder for balance and for something else, doesn't want to let go. Squeezes hard, wishing his voice hadn't chosen this moment to check out on him.

"Sorry, dude," Colin says, coming up next to Dean. "I forgot you're... Do you have your, uh—"

"No."

"Shit. Okay. Here, grab my—"

"I've got him," Sam says, voice hoarse.

"Yeah?" Colin says. "You sure, man?"

"Yeah."

The absolute last thing in the world that Dean wants right now is to lean on his little brother. Sam should be leaning on him, for chrissake. But he doesn't have a choice, grabs the arm Sam offers and takes a painful step, sucks in a breath.

"You good?" Colin asks, and they both nod once.

It's not easy, trying to match his halting steps to Sam's longer ones, trying to keep as much weight as he can off his leg, but Sam holds him tighter with every stride, long fingers closing around Dean's arm until it hurts.

By the time they get to Colin's door and into the house and onto a couch, Dean's not really sure who's supporting whom anymore.

The medics have given Colin something for Sam to take, some sedatives, sleeping pills or something, Dean's not really sure what, but Sam swallows down whatever's handed to him.

Now that they're in the light Dean can see the tear tracks that have traced paths in the fine soot covering his brother's face. Sam's crying silently, mouth stretched into a thin line, clamped shut.

No one says much of anything. Gretchen stands in the middle of the room, choked sobs racking her small frame, and Colin sits in an armchair, head in his hands.

The pills do whatever they were meant to, and Sam's breathing eventually becomes even, the lines disappear from his forehead. He's stretched out on the couch, fists curled up to his mouth like a child.

"He asleep?" Colin asks.

Dean wipes his eyes, looks back at his brother. "Yeah."

"Jess," Gretchen whispers, like now that Sam is unconscious, she can say the name. "Oh my god. Jess."

Dean is sitting on the edge of the couch where his brother is now sleeping, and he makes an attempt to transfer himself to an armchair close by, executes a series of bizarre, unwieldy motions that would, under normal circumstances, embarrass him. He can't do it, and ends up sinking to the floor instead.

"Fuck," he says quietly. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Colin rubs his eyes, digging his fists deep.

"Do either of you have a cigarette?" Dean asks. "Please, god."

"We don't smoke," Colin says.

Gretchen drops onto the floor across from Dean, hands plucking at her sweater.

"I can't believe this is happening," she says, chokes a little. "I can't believe this happened."

Dean doesn't know what to say. He's spent his life dealing with bereaved people, kind of incidental in his line of work, but it's never been like this. Never really been someone that he's known. Someone that he's liked. A non-hunter. Someone that Sam has loved.

Colin turns to Dean. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day," he says. "Sam's going to have a lot of legal shit to get through, man. You know that, right?"

Dean passes a hand over his face. "I guess so."

"And—" Colin pauses for a moment, gulps tears, continues. "And Jess' family will have to come down. They're close by, couple hours tops."

"Okay."

"Just so you know," Colin continues. "I'm here for you. I'm one of Sam's TA's – I'm a law student. So if you have any problems. I can try and help out."

"Thank you," Dean says. "Jesus, man. Thanks for everything. Seriously. Fuck." He wipes his eyes again. They've been leaking slowly this whole time; not crying, just emitting a steady stream of water.

"No," Colin says. "Shit. Don't thank me."

"Can we go to bed?" Gretchen asked. "I just want to climb in my bed and never come out."

"Yeah," Colin says. "Okay." He looks at Dean, glances around the room. "We've got a futon under our bed," Colin says. "You can sleep there."

"No," Dean says, clears his throat. "No, I'm going to stay here."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." Under no circumstances does Dean want Sam to wake up without him right there.

"Okay." Colin shifts from foot to foot. Gretchen stands, leans against him. "Good night."

"Night," Dean says, feels his throat close up. It's melodramatic, and it's silly, but fuck, "night" was the last word he spoke to Jess.

They turn off the lights as they leave and Dean is left alone in the darkness, propped up against the couch, listening to Sam breathe. He doesn't really know how to think about what's just happened, doesn't want his brother to have to wake up to this drastically altered world.

Dean lies down on the ground, flat on his back, leg letting out a howl of protest. Thinks there's no fucking way he'll ever fall asleep.

But somehow he does.

When Sam wakes the next morning, the first thing he sees is his brother, asleep on the floor next to the couch, head pillowed on his jacket. He's a mess, face smudged and blackened with ash, hair going every which way, t-shirt dark with soot.

Sam takes a breath and is assaulted with the scent of fire, of smoke, of burning hair. Blond hair, burning.

He lets out a choked gasp, bends forward, thinks he might throw up, thinks he might scream.

Beside him, Dean wakes up with a soft groan, opens his eyes, sees that Sam's awake and pushes himself into a sitting position, grabs his brother's arm even before he's upright.

"Sammy," he says.

"Please," Sam says, squeezing his eyes shut, willing it away, praying like he's never prayed before. "It was a dream. Dean, tell me it was a dream. I was having a nightmare. Tell me it was just a dream."

"Sammy," Dean says again, and Sam hears his voice break.

"No," he says. "Fuck, no. No, no, no."

He didn't know it was even possible to feel this way, to feel so overwhelmed with pain, with helplessness. With horror, guilt, sadness, disbelief, denial.

He realizes that he's never felt real grief until this moment.

"Sam," Dean says, like it's the only word he remembers.

Sam doubles over, sees Jess' face, her eyes huge and uncomprehending, sees fire. He gags, feels vomit rise in his throat. "I'm going to be sick," he says, and Dean looks wildly around, grabs a water glass from a nearby coffee table and shoves it in Sam's hand. Sam holds it under his mouth, gags again, spits something up. Bile.

Dean grips the couch, hoists himself up next to Sam, puts a warm hand on his back. "Dude," he says helplessly. "We're gonna. We're gonna get through this. Fuck, Sam, I."

"It was the same thing," Sam says. "The ceiling. The fire."

"I know," Dean says. 'I know."

"Why would it want Jess?" Sam asks, realizes that he's crying. Dean doesn't say anything, just keeps his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulls him a little tighter.

Colin comes into the room, looks at the two of them sitting there, tucks his hands awkwardly into his pockets.

"Sam," he says. "Dude. I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry."

Sam doesn't say anything, can't work the words around the huge lump sitting in his throat like a poisonous toad.

"Fuck, man," Colin says helplessly.

"Do her parents know?" Sam asks finally. "Do people know?"

"Yeah. I talked to the Dean of students. Her parents are on their way."

Sam nods, puts his face in his hands.

"My phone's been blowing up, man. I hate to — but a lot of people want to talk to you. Cops. The school. Jess' parents asked about you."

Sam rubs his face on his sleeve, lets out a shuddering breath. "Jesus. How am I...?"

"I'm sorry, man."

Sam stands, suddenly. "I have to go the bathroom," he says.

"Okay," Colin says. "Okay."

In the bathroom Sam pukes up everything in his stomach, bent over the toilet, hands gripping the basin. He stares at himself in the mirror, wonders what the fuck he did, wonders how he could have let this happen. Already he misses Jess so much it's like a physical ache in his chest, like a hole has literally been carved out of some vital organ.

She's not just the only girl he's ever loved, although she's that, too. She's the symbol of everything he thought he was doing right, the culmination of the life he once thought he could never have. And now he's finally been proven right, and she's gone, and his life is gone. He's gone.

He rinses his mouth out with water, splashes some on his face, which is pointless, since he's still crying.

In the living room, Dean and Colin are exactly where he left them, both staring at the floor.

"The Dean called," Colin says. "She's coming over, man."

"For what?" Sam asks. "Why?"

"She wants to talk to you."

Sam thinks that sounds like something that he doesn't want, but he isn't certain. He can't really feel anything at the moment besides deep, deep grief, clenching his stomach and wrapping itself around his lungs, seeping into his bones. Let the Dean come. Who cares.

"Okay," he says. Walks across the living room, walks back. Doesn't want to sit down, but doesn't want to stand up. He clenches and unclenches his fists, tries to keep breathing. Wants to break something, wants to sleep for a year. Wants, for the first time in a long time, to lose himself in a fight, wants to beat the everliving shit out of someone or something that's unequivocally bad, evil.

"I need," he says, then realizes he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

"Do you want some water?" Colin asks. "Are you hungry? Toast?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Coffee, maybe?" Colin asks.

"No."

Dean is jiggling his good leg up and down, looks like he's about to jump out of his skin, and Sam knows that in the past he'd be pacing all over the room, stalking through the house. Dean was always a pacer, even in tiny motels where there was barely room enough to stretch.

"You okay?" Sam asks him, and the question, especially coming from Sam, is so ridiculous that they both smile for a moment, grim, tight, more a stretching of skin over tooth than anything else.

"I'm going to make some coffee," Colin says, looking nervously back and forth between the two of them. "For the Dean. And, uh for Dean. You want some coffee?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "That'd be great."

Colin leaves the room, and Sam feels something lance through his gut, doubles him over.

Dean makes an attempt to get to his feet, but quickly sinks down again with a hiss of pain and frustration, sits on the edge of the couch, straining as far towards his little brother as he can. Sam stays bent over, arms wrapped around himself, eyes closed.

"You gonna puke again?" Dean asks.

Sam takes a breath. "Maybe."

"We should get you into the bathroom. In case."

"I don't know."

"We should," Dean insists. "Come on, help me up."

"I can puke by myself, Dean," Sam says.

There's a silence, then Dean says, "Okay, here's the thing. I really, really have to take a piss."

Sam can't help himself, lets out a harsh bark of laughter.

"I am seriously sorry," Dean says. "But I might have an accident in the next three minutes. And I really don't want to be the one to explain to Colin why there's a big wet spot on the rug."

"Dude," Sam says, going over to the couch, pulling him to his feet.

Dean grunts a little, winces as he finds his footing. Sleeping on the floor evidently did him no favors; he leans heavy on Sam, who has to strain to keep him upright. He's thankful for the distraction, actually; it's harder to think of Jess when he's focused on keeping Dean from doing a faceplant.

In the bathroom, Sam obligingly turns around while Dean does his business, one hand on the sink to keep from falling.

"Okay," Dean says when he's done.

"She never should have gotten involved with me," Sam says. "I should have known."

"Don't you fucking talk like that, Sam," Dean says. "This is not your fault. Okay? This is NOT. Your. Fault."

Sam feels tears well up again, wonders if he'll ever stop crying. "How can you say that, Dean? How can you—" he stops as they enter the living room.

An birdlike older woman is standing there in a maroon skirt suit, large leather bag slung over her shoulder, short silver hair framing a kind, sharp face.

"Sam," she says, moving forward. "I am so sorry for your loss."

Sam doesn't know how the hell to respond to that, realizes for the first time that it's a stupid thing to say and vows never to say it to anyone ever again.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Thanks."

"I'm Elizabeth Traynor," she says. "The Dean of students. I don't know if we've ever met."

Sam shakes his head. Dean's pushed himself off of Sam's arm, is making a valiant effort to keep his balance, one hand still on his brother's elbow.

"Shall we sit down?" The Dean asks.

"Yeah," Sam says, and they move forward. She's watching Dean with curiosity.

"This is my older brother," Sam says. "Dean."

"Yes?" she asks, at the same time Dean says "Good to meet you," lowering himself with a grimace into the armchair.

"That's his name," Sam clarifies. "His name is Dean."

"Oh. It's nice to meet you, too," she says. Turns back to Sam. "I'm so glad that you have your family around you in this time of trouble."

Sam nods stiffly as Colin comes out of the kitchen holding two cups of coffee. He hands one to the Dean and one to Dean. Dean chugs it so fast Sam's surprised he doesn't burn the roof of his mouth off. Burn. No. Don't think of it.

"I came to tell you—" the Dean starts, but is distracted by Dean, who's leaning close, making a strange motion with his head. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd think Dean was smelling her.

"Sorry," Dean says, sitting up. "But hey. Do you smoke?"

She colors, starts to shake her head, turns it into a shrug. "I have one now and—"

"Jesus, please tell me you can bum me one," Dean says, closing his eyes. "Please."

"Oh. Well, sure." She roots around in her gigantic bag, comes out with a pack of Virginia Slims, hands it over. "Do you need a—"

But Dean's Zippo is already out and trying to do it's job. Sam realizes his brother's hands are trembling too hard to get a purchase on the flint wheel, and for a moment Dean just paws at it, spins it without doing anything.

After a second it catches and flares up, and Sam suddenly can't breathe, seeing the flame dancing there, sees other flames, sees fire, fuck, sees fire everywhere. Then it's gone as quickly as it came, but the imprint is still burned onto Sam's retina.

"Thank you," Dean says, taking a heavy drag, holding the smoke in his lungs, letting it out slowly, regretfully. "Seriously, thank you."

Sam tries to get control over himself, blinks a couple times.

"No problem," the Dean says, and turns back towards Sam. "As I was saying, sweetie. I want you to know that the school is here for you, academically and emotionally. We'll put you up in a dorm for free until you can find a new place to live. All your teachers have been informed of – what happened – and we have counselors on call. Professional grief counselors."

She talks and Sam listens, nods, tries not to break down in front of her. He watches Dean rapidly inhale his way through three of her Virginia Slims in what has to be record time. Sam sees him pocket a few before handing the pack back as she's leaving. He's pretty sure the Dean notices, too.

"We'll be in touch," she promises Sam, giving him an awkward hug, made even more awkward by the fact that she just barely comes up to his chest. She gives Dean a somewhat suspicious look. He salutes her.

"Jesus," Sam says as soon as she's gone. "Grief counseling." He doesn't see how talking to some stranger is going to help him. Doesn't see how some stranger could possible understand what it's like to hold happiness in your hands and then watch it strung up and bleeding on the ceiling surrounded by a halo of flames.

Besides, if he tried to tell a counselor about the way Jess really died, he'd be sent to a mental institution.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean says, lighting another cigarette, drawing the smoke in like it's oxygen and he's just been drowning. Sam looks away from the glowing tip. "Maybe grief counseling wouldn't be such a bad idea."

"Jess went when her grandfather died last year," Sam says, and stops, because he didn't even realize what he was saying, didn't realize that he's going to have to stop and think about every sentence from here on out, because he always talks about Jess and now Jess is gone.

He puts his head between his knees, feels his brother's hand settle on his back, heavy, warm.

"Dean," he chokes out. "I loved her so much."

"I know."

"I don't know what I'm going to do without her."

"I know."

"Mom and Jess. They didn't deserve it. God, it was horrible, Dean. It was so horrible."

"I know, Sam," Dean says. "I know."

To be continued…


	18. Chapter 18

Nadie encendía las lámparas

A/N: Thanks very much to those of you who are reviewing!

There's some weird thing with my computer where I can't respond to reviews, but I'm trying to figure it out.

But meanwhile, thanks so much! I want you to know how much I appreciate it.

Also. Sorry I killed Jess. I feel really bad about.

18/?

For the first time ever, Dean finds himself feeling almost grateful for pain. Almost; because between escaping from a fire, sleeping on a hard wooden floor, and the conspicuous lack of vicodin, the pain is pretty fucking bad. But at least it gives him something to focus on, other than… everything else. So he doesn't completely mind.

He does, however, mind being bound to the armchair in the living room.

Colin searches, but there's nothing in the house that could serve as a makeshift cane; no umbrellas, no fire pokers, nothing.

Dean wonders tetchily how that's even possible. He can think of about a million cane-shaped household items; this must be a faulty fucking household.

So he can't really do anything but sit there, watching things unfold around him.

Sam's the one who hauls him up and down when he has to go to the bathroom or needs to stretch: he waits just outside the door while Dean takes a shower, is doggedly solicitous, taking his role as Dean's replacement cane very seriously.

Dean hates, HATES that he's forced to rely on Sam at a time like this, but slowly realizes that Sam, far from minding, is concentrating on it, just as Dean concentrates on the sharp ache gnawing on his leg and arcing up through his back.

Sam's been shifting in and out of different moods all day; sometimes he's a zombie, staring straight ahead for long minutes at a time, and sometimes he cries, babbles without making any sense. And then, sometimes, in tiny windows, he's just Sam, and Dean thinks maybe everything will be — not okay, but better.

People keep dropping by, mostly authority figures; cops, people from the administration, all with endless questions and forms for Sam to fill out.

The cops that come today are a kinder breed, well-versed in dealing with "the bereaved," and they speak gently to Sam, who answers their questions in stoic monosyllables until they start asking about his life with Jess before the fire. Then he sobs steadily through the rest of the interview.

Dean doesn't do much, just sits there, watches his brother, makes sure no one asks anything Sam doesn't want to answer. Shamelessly bums cigarettes from any smoker who walks in the door, of which there are a depressingly small amount. What is it with California that even the cops don't smoke?

He knows Colin wants to say something about smoking in the house, but he also knows that given the situation, he's not going to, and Dean is obscurely and guiltily grateful; feels like an asshole but figures they're all in extenuating circumstances. Besides, Colin's been drinking off and on all day. Everyone's got their vices.

At around three o'clock, there's a knock on the door, but it's not a cop or anyone in uniform. Just a woman, mid-forties, jeans and a t-shirt.

She's holding a pair of crutches.

Turns out Sam's called the school health center: WHEN he found the time to call, Dean's not sure, since he thought he'd been doing a pretty good job of keeping an eye on his brother. Then again, he can only watch Sam while he's in the living room, so it could have been anytime.

"God bless your beautiful heart," Dean says fervently, to the nurse and to his brother. He thinks that Sam might have almost smiled at that.

"Oh, don't worry about it," the nurse, Linda, says. Her accent clearly places her origins in the Midwest. "Sam told me you were having a little trouble and I said, well hey, don't you worry. I've got the necessary equipment!"

Dean grins at her, raises his eyebrows, and she blushes.

She's also brought along some Tylenol with codeine, which he swallows under Sam's watchful eye, takes a few extra when he's not looking. Because come on, Tylenol? Really not going to do much.

After she leaves, Dean gets himself up off the chair and takes a practice "walk" around the room, Sam hovering at his back. He forgot how sweet and easy crutches are: swing forward, and repeat. Voila. No need to even put his foot on the ground. He can't remember why he would have chosen to use a cane.

"Seriously, Sam," Dean says. "Thank you."

Sam just shrugs.

His cellphone rings suddenly, startling both of them. Dean realizes he must have turned it on only recently.

Sam looks for a moment at the caller I.D. and Dean sees his face go white, but after a moment's brief hesitation, he flips open the phone.

"Hi Mrs. Moore," he says, and starts crying again.

Jess's parents want to see him, and Sam agrees to it.

He doesn't know how he feels about this — part of him just really doesn't want to see their grief and have to compare it to his own, come out lacking, because he loved her, too, but they have a claim on her that he can't even come close to.

But then another part of him wants to be around the people who loved her, the only people who can come even inch close to knowing what he's going through; knowing what's been lost.

They've both lost such different Jess's, though. Sam doesn't know if the two can be reconciled. Doesn't know if he can look at Jess's mother, knowing that she held Jess as a baby, knows that she'll be remembering the feeling of Jess in her arms — and then Sam himself, remembering how he held Jess as a woman, also held her in his arms, but in a way that's poles apart.

Morbidly, he wonders what it will say on her gravestone. Probably something like, Jessica Moore, beloved daughter and sister. He isn't sure where he fits into her death. Jessica Moore, beloved daughter, sister and lover.

"I'll come with you," his brother offers, but Sam shakes his head. Dean has no place in that world. Dean is for the other world; the world that acknowledges what really happened. That Jess's death wasn't just a freak fire. That she died like their mother died 20 years ago, killed by something that's shaped his entire life ever since. Even when he thought he'd outrun it.

"I'll be back," Sam says. "I'm going to their hotel. It's just a few blocks away."

"You can take the car."

"I'd rather walk, I think." Give himself some time to prepare.

Dean nods, hitches himself across the room to where his jacket lies on the ground, leans down awkwardly, almost overbalancing on the crutches.

"Here," he says, rummaging around in the inner pocket. He offers Sam his knife.

Sam stares at it, taken aback by the violence it represents. He is all of a sudden in awe of how much violence he's committed in his life. How many things he's killed. The numbers are high. It doesn't seem like him, seems like it happened to someone else.

Jess would never believe it.

But Jess is gone, so he takes the knife, nods his thanks.

"Hey," he says, thinking of something. "The pharmacy is on the way. I can fill out your prescriptions, if you give them to me."

It sounds like a good, solid errand. Something normal. Medicine. Something helpful.

"Oh," Dean says, surprised. "Thanks." He fishes through his wallet, comes up with a few slips of tattered, stained paper. "Kind of worse for the wear."

"Hope they don't think I'm just some kid trying to get high." Sam glances through the prescriptions, raises his eyebrows. "This is a lot. I thought it was just vicodin."

"Oh. Yeah. No. There's some other stuff, too. In case."

"Like muscle relaxants."

"Like that." Dean starts to put his wallet back in his jacket, then perks up. "Oh, hey! Sam. If you wanted to. Could you do me another favor? If you want."

Sam knows what's coming. "Cigarettes."

"Please, man? Come on, I just sucked up to that jackass cop for an hour."

"Your problem, not mine," Sam says, but accepts the twenty that's Dean's holding out. "Camels?"

Dean nods, hesitates. "If they have a carton … get that."

"Fuck no. That's disgusting."

"Dude, it saves money. And time. And my sanity."

"I'll think about it," Sam tells him, turns to go.

Dean reaches out, grabs his arm. "Hey."

"What?"

"Good luck, Sammy."

He sighs, chest tight again, eyes wet once more. "Thanks."

As soon as Sam's left the house, Dean goes into the kitchen, where Colin and Gretchen are sitting at the small round table. There's a bottle of jack on the table.

"Sam went to see Jess's parents," he says.

Gretchen's face crumples, and Colin shakes his head. "Fuck, man." He hoists the bottle at Dean. "You want some?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Thanks."

Colin pours him a hefty tumbler, and Dean gulps it down, lets Colin pour him another. Drinks that too, wipes his mouth.

"Thanks," he says again. "I needed that."

"No shit," Colin mumbles, rubs a hand over his eyes. "How's Sam?"

Dean shrugs, leans on his crutches. "You know."

"Yeah."

"I've got to get out of the house," Dean says. "I'm gonna go for a walk."

Colin eyes him skeptically. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"I won't go far."

"Don't get lost," Gretchen says.

"Give me a little credit, please."

Gretchen half-smiles. "No."

The chilly air feels good on Dean's face; feels amazing, in fact. He takes a deep breath, lets it seep into his lungs. Coughs.

He starts remembering why he uses a cane instead of crutches as soon as he tries to get down the stairs. It's always difficult, sure, but it's a hell of a lot harder when he's trying to maneuver himself on two huge sticks while trying not to topple headfirst.

He remembers again when he gets to the Impala parked outside, when he tries to open the trunk without letting one or both of the crutches fall to the ground. A cane you just need one hand. Crutches, you need two hands and two arms. Really fucking energy inefficient.

With crutches, you can't hold anything, so Dean's forced to stuff the EMF meter into the front pocket of his jacket, while his gun goes in the back of his jeans. He fills his pants pockets with as much salt as he can, and tucks the flask of holy water into his belt. He feels like a really stupid terrorist who's never been taught how to properly smuggle weapons onto planes.

He catches sight of a baseball bat in the trunk, and, after a moment's contemplation, lets his crutches fall, picks up the bat instead.

It's unwieldy, and it looks fucking ridiculous, but he figures he's got a whole shit-ton of stairs to get up, and the crutches are not the best men for the job. A bat-cane is better.

It takes him a while to climb the steps, his leg still pretty stiff from his night on the floor, but he thinks the Tylenol helped. Or maybe it was the whiskey. Either way, he's feeling limber enough to get him to the top.

He pauses on Sam and Jess's landing. It looks so innocuous from the outside, save for the thin layer of ash and soot that covers everything.

He reaches for the doorknob, thinks better of it, and fists his hand in his sleeve before opening the door. No reason to leave fingerprints.

He gets the chills as he steps inside. The kitchen is exactly as he last saw it, save for the fact that everything is now blackened. It's how you would picture a kitchen if the kitchen had just hung out in hell for a while.

The living room has been more badly damaged, the armchair half-gone, its charred remains scattered around the floor. The couch has been scorched but not burned completely, though the glass of the T.V. is broken. Dean's not sure how that would have happened.

The EMF has been silent, and he checks it, taps in once or twice, fiddles with the knobs.

Nothing.

Huh.

This doesn't make sense, since he knows for godddamn sure that whatever killed Jess was supernatural. The fact that the EMF doesn't go off means that it wasn't a ghost, or a spirit, or even a poltergeist. What else could it…

And then Dean knows.

Demon.

This was always his father's theory, but Dean never completely bought it. He's seen demons, sure, but not that often, and usually only in the context of an exorcism. He's never heard of one acting alone like this, out of pure malicious intent.

He purses his lips, starts to move forward again. Sees something glinting underneath a blanket of ash, reaches down.

Jesus. It's his cane.

His throat constricts for a moment, remembering Jess's enthusiasm, and he picks it up almost tenderly, checks it over for damage.

It's all in one piece, not even singed.

This is great – but now what's he supposed to do with this stupid baseball bat?

He rubs it down for fingerprints, tosses it into a corner. Whatever. Let the police have one more mystery to puzzle over. They've been saying the fire was caused by an electrical shortage, so he's not overly intimidated by their intelligence.

He steels himself, moves into the bedroom, EMF in one hand.

He heard a rescue worker say that there was no body, no bones, just a silver heart necklace, and his stomach turns to think that he could be walking through Jess's remains right now.

The EMF meter still doesn't pick anything up, but Dean's nose does. He sniffs again, just to make certain.

Sulfur.

Suddenly he wants to get out of the apartment as soon as possible. He's not nearly equipped to handle a fucking demon, and he really doesn't want to die here, thanks.

Although the demon's probably long gone. But still.

He hops down the stairs as quickly as he can, not breathing easy until he's down next to his car.

Jesus. He cannot fucking wait till Sam gets back with his cigarettes.

Why the fuck would a demon want to kill Jess? The same demon that killed their mother, no less.

He remembers, with a sinking feeling, what Sam had said that morning. It wasn't Sam's fault, god, he knows that. But the coincidence is creepy, nonetheless.

He's been gone for about half an hour, but can't bring himself to go back indoors just yet, so he figures he'll do what he says he was going to do; walk.

He eyes the crutches still in a heap next to the Impala, then looks at his cane. He plans on lying, obviously, telling Colin and Gretchen that he found it outside somewhere, so that's not the problem. But he puts it in the trunk, picks up the crutches.

He should keep both cane and crutches around, he realizes. They fulfill different purposes. The crutches are annoying, it's true, but with them he can walk for longer, since there's much less weight put on his leg. He wouldn't have to constantly worry about whether or not there will be chairs wherever he's going, wouldn't have to worry as much about getting tired.

He starts down the street, no destination in mind, just moving for the sake of moving. It feels good. Hurts a little, yeah. But feels good.

He realizes that he hasn't done his exercises since he left Bobby's, and he curses himself for his stupidity. Not that he's really had too much time, but he has to make time if he wants any hope for improvement in his leg.

He decides that he should call a local clinic, get fitted for a new brace as soon as possible.

His walk takes him up about eight blocks before he loops back around. He's only been walking for about half an hour, but it's tired him out, and he suddenly needs to sit down.

He passes a small coffee shop, and his mouth waters as the aroma of coffee sifts out the door. Thinks, what the hell, and goes inside.

It's a college coffee shop, that's for sure, and Dean feels uncomfortable, feels like people are staring at him, knowing he doesn't belong.

He orders the biggest size they have, black, but realizes at the pick-up counter that he can't carry the coffee and move himself on the crutches at the same time, and he stalls for time, picking at sugar packets, trying to figure out his next move.

"Let me help," someone says, and Dean turns.

It's an older guy, nicely dressed, not bad-looking, but something about him makes Dean uncomfortable, raises the hair on the back of his neck.

Nevertheless, he says, "Thanks," and gives the guy a smile.

"Where are you sitting?"

"Uh, outside. The bench."

Dean follows the man outside, props up his crutches and lowers himself onto the bench before taking the coffee.

"Thanks, man," Dean says again, and the guy flashes a smooth, toothy smile.

"Don't mention it," he says.

For a moment, Dean catches a glint of yellow in the man's brown eyes, and it's off-putting, makes him squint and look again.

Dean watches as he walks down the street and disappears around the corner, then he shakes his head, drinks his coffee. He realizes that he can't drink and walk, and he's relegated to the bench until he finishes the whole damn cup, which is huge.

It takes about fifteen minutes, and by the end, Dean's feeling a little jittery. It just serves to exacerbate his craving for nicotine, and he prays that Sam will be back when he returns. He wants some vicodin, too, wants it so badly he can taste it, bitter and dusty on his tongue. Jesus. Addictive personality much?

He's been gone about two hours, he realizes, looking at his watch. A little over two hours. And he still has about a half-hour left. He wishes he hadn't gone so far.

Sam is sitting on the couch when he gets back, staring into space.

Dean eases himself down next to his brother with a little huff of pain.

"How'd it go?" he asks, carefully watching Sam's face.

"It sucked," Sam says. His eyes fill with tears, which he wipes away with a gesture that's becoming second nature.

"Jesus," Dean says, putting his head in his hands. "Jesus."

"They just… they just cried all over me for two hours," Sam says. "We just sat there and cried. In their stupid hotel room."

"Did… did it feel… did it make you feel better?"

"No."

Dean sighs, absently massages his knee.

"They wouldn't let me fill your prescription," Sam continues, monotone. "You have to do it yourself."

"Okay," Dean says, but his heart sinks.

"But, here," Sam says, rustles around in a plastic bag on the floor, hands Dean a carton of cigarettes.

"Oh, man, Sammy, thank you so —" Dean stops, looks closer. "What the… Virginia Slims? MENTHOLS?"

Sam cracks the barest of grins, and Dean doesn't give a shit about the cigarettes if Sam's smiling, but he plays it up, scowls at his brother.

"Dude, seriously. I know I'm pretty, but I'm not a fucking chick."

"Yeah, well, you asked for a carton. So you've got to smoke them all. There's even a bonus pack. It's pink."

Dean groans, but is already ripping open the carton, crinkling cellophane, tearing foil. He's just about to light one when he thinks better of it.

"I'm going to go out onto the porch," Dean says. May as well try and respect the integrity of Colin's home, now that he can move around. "You wanna come?"

Sam shakes his head, smile gone. "I think I just want to sit here for a second."

Dean nods, gets himself up onto the crutches. Almost tells Sam about finding the cane, but then realizes he'd then have to tell Sam what else he found in the apartment, and he's not sure Sam's ready for that. Not sure he's ready for it.

Out on the porch, he lights his cigarette, inhales with a slight grimace of disgust. Fucking menthols. Jesus.

Doesn't stop him from smoking two in a row, though. He figures, the quicker he smokes these, the sooner he can stop smoking Virginia-freaking-mentholated-pussy-smokes-Slims.

He's on his third when his phone rings.

He picks it up, frowns at the caller I.D. Not a number he recognizes, though he thinks it may be a South Dakota area code.

Bobby.

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, flips the phone open. "Hello?"

"Hey, Dean."

And Dean thinks his heart actually stops, just for a moment. Because it's not Bobby.

"Dad?"

To be continued…


	19. Chapter 19

Nadie encendía las lámparas

19

Dean has absolutely no idea how to react to the sound of his father's voice: he's torn between anger and relief, doesn't know what to call the emotion that surges through him.

"Yeah," his father says, unnecessarily. "It's me."

"Where are you?" Dean asks, his voice carefully controlled.

His father sighs, a harsh sound that rattles down the phone line. "How's Sam?"

Not going to answer the question. Okay. Two can play at that game. Dean is silent, takes a drag off his cigarette. Waits.

"I heard about his girlfriend," John continues. "I heard you two were together."

Heard? Jesus. Bobby is the biggest blabbermouth on the freakin' planet.

"He okay?" John presses.

"No," Dean says.

There's silence. John clears his throat. "How, uh. How are you? How are you doing?"

Dean laughs, a low, bitter sound. "How am I? Oh, that's right. Last time you saw me I wasn't doing too well, huh?"

"They thought you were going to lose the leg," his father says in a strange, almost pleading tone.

"I didn't."

"I know."

Dean takes a deep breath, rubs his forehead. Doesn't know how to say anything he wants to say. Doesn't know what he wants to say. "Why are you calling? Now?"

"I told you. I heard about Sam's girlfriend."

"So you're calling to check up on him? Ask his address so you can send him a couple boxes of tissues?"

"She died in a fire," John states.

"Yeah."

"Were you there?"

Dean tries not to feel an accusation behind the words, but he does. If you were there, why didn't you save her? "Yeah. I was there."

"Was it just a normal fire?" his father asks carefully. "Cops are saying electrical shortage."

Dean lets himself marvel briefly at his father's freakish research skills – not twenty-four hours have passed, but already he's up-to-date.

"I think," Dean says slowly, "that you know what kind of fire it was."

He hears his father suck in a breath. "I have my theories."

"I EMF'd the place," Dean says, grudgingly getting sucked into the hunt talk; the only way he knows how to speak to his father, right now. "I've got some theories too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Neither of them speak. John lets out a slow, heavy breath. "Listen," he says.

Dean doesn't want to listen.

"I'm sorry," his father says. "I'm sorry I left you."

Dean closes his eyes, focuses on the ache in his leg, tries to ground himself.

"You're probably angry with me."

Damn straight.

"You know what killed Jess?" John asks.

"Don't say her name like that," Dean says, suddenly vehement. "Don't say her name as if you knew her."

"Do you know what killed her?"

"Demon," Dean says. "Same demon that killed mom. Same demon you're tracking right now. Same demon you left me to go after."

John starts to say something, but Dean cuts him off. "Yes, I know what killed them and I know what you're doing. I'm not fucking stupid. At first I thought you were in danger, thought something took you, or… But I figured it out."

"I didn't want you to get hurt," his father says, all in a rush. "I knew. I knew you would want to come. I couldn't let you get hurt."

"If I recall correctly," Dean says, unable to hold back, "I already was hurt."

"I know," John says, and his breath hitches, catches somewhere in the back of his throat. "I know. I saw. And I'm sorry I left you. But not sorry enough that I wouldn't do it again. I couldn't let—"

"_Let?_" Dean asks. "What am I, four? Christ, Dad, I can—"

"Dean. You may not have lost the leg. But you don't exactly have it, either."

Dean breathes noisily through his nose, furious and obscurely embarrassed. "I'm fine."

"You're _not_." He hears something change in his father's voice, then, and John says, "Jesus, Dean, I saw what it was like. I took you in. I was there. In the hospital. And I know you think I just split on you without a backwards glance, but I spoke to your doctors every goddamn day up until you left. So I _know_, dude. I know you're not fine."

"Yeah, well," Dean spits out, "I'm trying to be."

His father's silent for a moment. "It hurt?"

"No, it feels awesome. You should try it."

"How are you getting around?"

"Sammy bought me a pony."

"Jesus, Dean."

"Jesus, Dad."

Neither of them speak. Dean glances down, remembers his cigarette, which has burned itself into a long worm of ash and gone out in his hand. He fumbles another one out of the pack, lights it with a hiss of his Zippo.

"Where are you?" his father asks.

"Sam's friend's house."

"Outside?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I can hear you smoking."

"You added sonic hearing to your superpower roster? Wow, Dad. I woulda gone with x-ray vision, personally."

He hears John snort. "Why do you have to be such a smartass?"

"Same reason you have to be just a plain old ass."

"So you're staying with a friend? Sam's friend? He's got… people?"

"Yeah, he's got people. Me, for one."

John sighs. "Are you… up? Moving around?"

"I told you. Pony."

"Just—Jesus." John's voice is a knot of frustration. "Just give me something to go on here, huh? I can't fucking imagine... I mean. You must be. Are you. Just give me something, okay?"

Dean lets out a breath. "It sucks, Dad. It takes me fifteen minutes to climb twenty stairs and it fucking sucks. Is that what you want to hear? Is it?"

"Yes," his father says, voice slow. "I guess that's what I wanted to hear."

"You happy now?"

"No."

There's not much Dean can say to that.

"God," John says. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"Shit." There's that hitch in his voice again, like a piece of cloth snagged on a rusty nail. "Dean. I."

Dean doesn't want this, really can't handle the broken quality in his father's voice. Demands, "Are we going to see you? Are you close by?"

"I can't. Not yet. I've got some leads; I think I'm on the right track."

"Leads. Right."

"Dean," his father says. "What I did. Leaving. I didn't want to. I just couldn't watch you, couldn't let you… Fuck, Dean. You should have seen your. It was."

Dean taps ash onto the table.

"Can you. You think you're ever gonna forgive me?"

Dean sighs, shakes his head. "Yeah, you melodramatic asshole," he says. "I already have."

John draws a shaky breath. "Okay, then," he says.

"Okay."

"Please. Tell Sam. Tell Sam I called. Tell him I'm sorry. About J—about his girlfriend. And about… what I said. Last time."

"Yeah."

"Take care of yourself, man, okay? Be easy on that leg. Fuck. Take it easy."

"Right."

"Dude. I'm serious. I know you're gonna want to get into this. Don't."

"See you, Dad," Dean says. Hangs up the phone.

He finishes his cigarette, gets to his feet. Picks up his crutches, goes back into the house.

"You were out there a while," Sam says, still on the couch. Eyes red.

"Yeah. I was on the phone."

"With who?"

"Dad."

Sam's eyes grow wide, and before he can stop himself, Dean swings his crutch out in a long arc and brings it down hard on the coffee table. It doesn't break, but the two cups on it go shattering to the ground in a loud explosion of glass, and there's a huge dent in the wood.

"Fuck!" Sam says, jumps to his feet.

"Sorry," Dean says, hollow. Repeats, "Sorry."

"Jesus, Dean, that's not our fucking coffee table!"

"I know."

"What the fuck am I going to tell Colin?"

"Tell him your brother's a nutcase."

"I'm pretty sure he got that by now," Sam spits. "Jesus."

Dean lowers himself onto the couch, can't help the grunt that escapes his lips. Everything fucking _hurts._

Sam's face changes, softens. "What'd dad want? Why did he call?"

"Heard about Jess. Offers his condolences."

"Does he know the fire was…"

"Yeah."

Sam is silent for a moment, then he licks his lips, closes his eyes. "Does he know what caused it?"

Dean hesitates, figures he's already gotten in pretty deep. "Demon."

"Fuck," Sam hisses.

"Yeah."

"Same thing that killed mom," Sam says, not a question.

"Yeah."

"And Dad is…"

"Going after it."

Sam's jaw twitches, locks.

"I went over to the apartment this afternoon," Dean says. "Sulfur. No EMF signal."

Sam shakes his head, threads his fingers through his hair.

"Why?" he asks. "It doesn't make any fucking sense."

"I know."

"Why would a demon want to kill Jess? She was—she never did anything. She was just _good_, that's all. She was so good."

"I know."

"And Mom, too, jesus—" Something hardens on Sam's face and he stands, crosses the room. Comes back. Looks like he's trying to work through something, jaw moving in and out, shoulders rigid.

"Is Dad on its trail?" he asks.

"Looks like. Says he's got some leads."

"You mean other than Jess getting burned to a crisp?" Sam bites out the words, and Dean draws back from the venom in his voice.

"Jesus, Sammy…"

Sam's face crumples. "God. I didn't mean that."

"It's okay."

"But it's a demon," Sam says, like he's trying it out. "A demon that killed mom. That killed Jess."

"Yeah."

Sam looks at his brother. Visibly comes to a decision.

"Dean," Sam says, low, intense. "Do you want to find him?"

"Dad?"

"Tell me. Do you still want to find him?"

Dean is quiet, leg throbbing hotly to the rhythm of his heart.

"You said you weren't going to stay here," Sam presses. "You said you were going after Dad. Is that still what you want? You said you can do it. Do you really think you can?"

"Things have changed," Dean tries. "I'm not gonna leave you after—"

"That's not what I'm saying," Sam says.

Dean knows that.

He looks up, meets his little brother's eyes, fierce and bright and focused and full of a wild pain.

Dean has never said no when Sam has really needed him. Never will.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I can do it."

"Okay," Sam says, more to himself than to Dean. "Okay."

And that. Is that.

The End —

A/N: THANK YOU to those who stuck with me through my first fic!! I really appreciate your support and encouragement.


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